At Last
by thinktink2
Summary: Picks up from where my story "Odd Man Out" left off--right after the superbowl.
1. Chapter One

At Last

Rating: PG-13

Summary:  A sequel to my version of Odd Man Out, as promised.  Sorry about the wait—Real Life has kept me kind of busy lately, as have all the wonderful posts on the fanfic board.  Wow!

Disclaimer:  Please don't sue.  I have no $$$; obviously no life, and still even more obvious, no Harm/DJE, because if I did, that would negate my previous statement of having no life (and possibly the $$$ one, too).  

Spoilers: I'm not really sure what all eps, but certainly those in the seventh season, from Odd Man Out on.

*********************************************

1308 ZULU

JAG HQ

Falls Church, VA

I shuffle off the elevator and into the bullpen, running a little late, and the first sight I am greeted with is Mac's smiling face.  If I didn't know better, I would think that she has been lying in wait for me.  I return her grin, unable to keep a straight face even if I wanted to in the light of that beautiful smile.

"Morning, Sailor," she says nudging her shoulder against mine.  I nudge her back.

I missed her.

"Morning, Mac," I reply.  She follows me into my office and shuts the door behind her.

"So, how was the big game?" she asks.

"You didn't watch?"  With her Rams playing I can't imagine Mac not tuning in.  Then again, given how I heard they played, I can see why she might have tuned out early.

"Yeah, I watched it," she whines disconsolately.  "It's the worst game the Rams ever played."

I chuckle.  "Well, I told you…"

"You did not.  You were rooting for the Steelers and they didn't even win their division."

"I was rooting for the Patriots, too."  She gives me a Look.  Okay, truthfully, I was hoping the Rams would win it, but I think the Pats deserved the win.  They worked really hard for it, but no need to get into all that with Mac.  She's no doubt still sore about the outcome of the game.

"Well see, you wouldn't have enjoyed the Superbowl anyway if I had had real seats."

She brushes her fingers along my sleeve.  "I don't know…" she murmurs.  I will myself not to react.

I missed…us.  This new "us" that we seem to have evolved to.  All I thought about while I was in the air during the game was her in my arms, her lips on mine, that black negligee she was wearing when I went to see her.  Wow.  Her letting me take in the beauty of her figure as she stood before me.  I wonder what would have happened if I hadn't pulled away from her.  

And now I'm back in Washington, and Mac's behavior appears to indicate she has no objection to the current progression of our relationship, which seems to be drifting carefully into uncharted waters for us—lovers.

I find myself yearning for that to be the case, and hesitant if it is.  I want to kick myself sometimes.  

I'm sure if I screw this thing up with Mac, there will be plenty of people in line to do just that.


	2. Chapter Two

Harm arrives as per his usual i.e. late, but looking more refreshed than he did when he arrived at work this morning.  I stand aside to allow him entry, and before I close the door he's swept me up in his arms and plants those warm lips on top of mine.  I grip his shoulders tightly, unsure of my footing as I return his kiss.  After a moment he breaks away and grins.

"I missed you, Marine."

"I can tell," I reply, trying to catch my breath.  I like this side of Harm.  I like this side of our relationship.  I think I can handle a real, romantic relationship with Harm.  I hope.  I don't think I can handle it if it doesn't work out, but we can't keep doing this, this ignoring what's there anymore.  We've tried that for too long and we were both miserable.

He pulls away and takes a seat on the couch.  He watches me as I try to regain my composure.  I don't know what's with me lately, but I find myself once again in his arms, feeling the warmth of his body as he trails kisses down the side of my face and neck.  Somehow I'm sandwiched between the cushions and Harm's body, tracing my fingers along the gold buttons of his uniform, trying to think of all the reasons we should take this slow, but I can't get my mind to function beyond the buzz that is being created by Harm's soft ministrations.  I close my eyes and enjoy the feel of his body on mine, the barest hint of stubble on his face as it scratches my cheek when he presses a kiss onto my temple and ear.  I relish the fact I am able to experience—to know—Harm this way.  I'm already committing to memory that feel of very fine sandpaper that his face has at…19:37 and 22 seconds.  

It's very faint, but I can distinguish his aftershave as well, something I've already committed to memory.  I pull him closer to me, and Harm returns his attention to my lips.  He runs his tongue along the seam of my mouth.  I part my lips and his warm tongue slips in, gently sweeping across my teeth into my mouth.

I groan in disappointment when he pulls away.  He gives me a half-smile.  "Time to pack it in."

"Huh?" I whisper dreamily.  What is he talking about?

"Mac?"  I open my eyes to find Harm staring curiously at me.  We're still at the office, my office, and it's well after seven.  In fact, it's almost 19:38.  Most of the other offices I can see, and the bullpen, are dark.

"You ready to call it a day, Marine?"

Ugh. Why did that have to be another dream?  I stare at my favorite sailor in disappointment.  Perhaps it's for the best.  We really don't need to be getting ahead of ourselves before we figure out where we're going with…us.

"You okay?" He asks, his black eyebrows narrowing in concern.  The eyes, I notice, are not nearly as red, and he seems a little more alive now then what he did earlier this morning.

"Yeah," I say, managing to find my voice.  "Yeah.  Just…daydreaming."

"I can tell."

I blush.  Can he really?  Does he know who—or what—about?

"And that lovely flush confirms what about.  Or dare I say whom?"

Well, that answers that question.

"What?  Like you've never dreamed about me before?" I retort.  Now it's his turn to blush.  Harmon Rabb blushing.  Obviously, those are some interesting dreams he's had.  He fidgets a little as he tries to think of a way to change the subject.

"You want to grab dinner?"  Good method.  I'm starving.  Food is most likely to throw me off his trail.  However, sitting down to dinner with him will give me the opportunity to grill him for some details of these dreams.

"Sure."

"Okay.  Maybe we…maybe we can talk about us."  I don't want to seem oxymoronic, but my guard goes up when he says that.  Maybe it's because every time either of us has tried to broach the subject of "us", the results have been a)nonexistent; or b)tragic.

At this point, I think it's best to just let things be as they may, and not question, and not fight, the way our relationship is developing. 

"Okay," I agree warily.  He looks as confident as I feel.


	3. Chapter Three

Mac manages to sucker me into Beltway Burgers while I am distracted with how to make my opening statement on the subject of "us."  At this point, I think it's almost the best thing to just let the chips fall where they may and see how our relationship develops.  No more hiding, or running, or denying.  Try and be like normal people in a relationship.

I wonder if that's even remotely possible with us.  

Mac chatters nonstop, from when we first entered the restaurant, to where we are now, seated in a booth in Hamburger Hell.  She pauses to take a bite of her ¼ lb. meat patty, and I jump in.

"Mac, look, about us," I say, wishing I had thought this conversation through.  Maybe practiced a little.  Wrote a script.  Adlibbing is not a wise move with Mac on this topic.

"Harm—" she says, although it sounds like "Hrmpf" with her mouth full.  She almost chokes on her sandwich.  I plunge ahead.

"I just wanted to say that, you know, things have been good between us lately—really good.  We're getting back to our friendship, you know?"

She coughs spasmodically, a few bits of hamburger lodging in the wrong place of her throat, and nods.  I told her this stuff would probably kill her.

"And then, a couple of weeks ago, things…things really got interesting."  I stare down at my greasy, unappetizing fries.  "I mean, you and I teasing—which is nothing new—" I add quickly, before she can say anything.  Out of the corner of my eye I see her nod, and the hint of smile tugs at the corner of her lips.  "But, the flirting—I guess that's nothing new, either—but…even though I feel bad about misleading you about the seats, I really liked…you know, all the attention…and us…flirting, and stuff, and…" God, this is terrible.  Think, Rabb, think.

"I think I know what you mean," Mac says, saving me from certain serious-conversation death.

"It was nice to—well, to act like, maybe two people who could be a couple," she says the last with a question in her inflection.

"Yeah.  Exactly.  I liked that, Mac." I look into her eyes for a moment, and then stare back down at my fries.  I pick a small one out of the box and pop it into my mouth.  Ugh.  How can Mac stand this place?

"It was nice not to have to think all the time about what we were doing and saying and…and all that other crap that's always—it was nice just to go on impulse.  Feel."

Okay, Rabb.  Now that really sounded stupid.  I look at Mac helplessly, hoping I can make her understand what exactly I mean, but she's watching me closely, a soft smile lighting up her features.  Maybe she does understand.

"Yes, it was.  It was very nice," she agrees.  "That's something I want to talk to you about, Harm."  I'm not sure what I should say, so I wait for her to continue.  She dusts the salt off her fingers with a napkin, and takes a sip of her cola before she elaborates.

"Maybe…maybe it would be a good idea to not—not do so much thinking with "us," and maybe just see where our hearts…our feelings take us.  Let things be as they may without fighting our feelings, or each other.  If it's meant to be--" she pauses for a deep breath.  "it's meant to be."

I let out a sigh of relief.  I personally believe it's meant to be.  She's the only woman I've ever felt this way about before.  Not even Diane.

"That's what I was thinking," I tell her.  She smiles.  I smile.  We sit there, grinning like two idiots at each other, in the middle of a Beltway Burgers restaurant.


	4. Chapter Four

1217 ZULU

Harm's Apartment

North of Union Station

"It's a beautiful morning,'" the Rascals playing on the radio and I sing together.  Actually, the sky is rather overcast, and the weather report I just heard claims the D.C. area will be blanketed with 6-8 inches of snow by Thursday afternoon.  However, none of that really matters as I concentrate on getting ready for work.  Mac and I came to several agreements last night—those of which are responsible for my good mood this otherwise particularly average day.  

The first, and most significant, is we agreed to give "us" a chance.  The second is we also decided to keep that fact quiet in case--in what wasn't mentioned, but I think was pretty clear nonetheless—"us" doesn't work out as we hoped.  We'd really like the peace and quiet of getting to know one another in a romantic way for as long as humanly possible, rather than having the entire office scrutinize our every word, behavior, and fight.  They do that already, and they think we're just friends.  Mac and I both really don't want to send the scuttlebutt flying just yet—or at least confirm any scuttlebutt just yet.  Not too mention, there are still some other details to work out with us being in the same chain of command, etc.

The third thing, and also of importance, is we agreed not to rush things.

The fourth, which I think is equal in rank to the first, is to be honest and communicate with one another, and not assume the other knows what we're talking about.  Maybe we'll get that right this time around.  Something to aspire to at least. 

I pick up my bottle of aftershave and chuckle.  It's about ¾ full, but I bought another one, just in case I run out unexpectedly, or misplace the other bottle.  I don't know what Mac's thing is about it, but I'm not about to switch to another brand.  Not if she likes it.  And judging by the reaction I get any time she detects it, she really likes it.

As I look into the mirror I realize I'm grinning like a fool.  I've seen that smile a lot these last couple of weeks.  I hope it never goes away.

Better tone it down, though, before someone—namely Sturgis or Harriet, who both are a little too damned perceptive for my taste—notices.

*********

1311 ZULU

JAG HQ

Falls Church, VA

"Good morning Sturgis!" I say cheerily, snatching a mug off the rack and flipping it in the air before catching it right-side up in my palm.  I whisk the carafe off the burner and splash some coffee into my mug.

"Are you sure you need that?" Sturgis asks, eyeing me warily.

"Nothing like a good cup of coffee in the morning," I return brightly.  I take a sip and gag.  Yech.  I know who made the coffee.

"Mac made that pot, I think," Sturgis tells me, confirming it.  Marines.  I notice Sturgis has a tea bag in his hand.  Smart man.  He reaches behind him and shakes the box at me.  I take one.

"Thanks."  

"Don't mention it.  So, you want to tell me why yesterday you looked like something from _The Evil Dead_ and today somebody from _The Love Boat_?"

"I don't know what you mean, Sturgis.  I met up with some old flight school buddies of mine Sunday night.  We had quite a little get-together.  In fact, I just arrived in D.C. a few hours before work, so pardon me if I wasn't dancing a jig yesterday."

He raises an eyebrow.  "Okay.  I just wondered if you and Mac worked something out."

I splutter into my tea.  "What makes you say that?"  Sheesh, is Mac's psychic sense rubbing off onto him?  

"I don't know…you two were the last ones here when I left, just thought that maybe, I don't know…you two have been pretty…chummy…the past couple of weeks."

"We're friends, Sturgis.  Chummy is what we do."

He sighs tiredly.

Mac steps into the break room.  She's heard my comment.  I hope she remembers our agreement to keep things quiet, and doesn't misconstrue my remark.  I turn my back to Sturgis and face her.  She pours a cup of her coffee and looks questioningly at Sturgis and I.  I wink at her.  She uses her cup to hide her smile.

"Morning, Colonel," I say, not too enthusiastic, not too cool.

"Commander.  You're looking much better than yesterday."  She grins, knowing quite well the reason for my freshened appearance.

"I had a good night's sleep.  Was all I needed."

"Mm-hmm." She replies, once again disguising her amusement behind her mug.  Then she notices our teabags.  

"What's the matter, Harm?  Don't like my coffee?  I made it especially for you.  I know how you squids can use that extra kick in the morning."  She grins wickedly.  

"Kick is one thing.  Brain-numbing jolt is another."

"Flying off carriers I should think that would be nothing new to you."

"That would certainly kickstart my heart."  I flash a grin at her.  "Your coffee is more likely to kill it—and me."

"Live dangerously, Hammer."

"I do.  I work with you."

She playfully punches me on the arm.  

"See, physical abuse?  Only one of the many crosses I must bear with you as a partner."

"Oh?  And just what are some of the others?"  She's blocking my retreat, but I fully intend on answering her question.

"Your shameless addiction to Beltway Burgers and all things unhealthy—which puts my health at risk even thinking about it, much less being around it—"she shakes her head—"and let's not forget your stubborn streak and that Irish temper of yours."  

This time she snorts and stares impudently at me.

"_My_ stubborn streak?  _My_ temper?"  She gives me a look full of meaning.  I ignore it.

"Yeah, exciting either of those is like going into a dogfight unarmed.  I'm just lucky I'm a good pilot."

She scoffs loudly.  "Well, like many an ego-driven jet-jock, you often go looking for a fight.  You get what you deserve."  She takes a defiant step towards me.

I take a step forward also.  "Maybe I just enjoy a good battle with a worthy opponent."

She tries to hold her glare, but I can see her lips twitch and finally she gives in and breaks into an inviting smile.

"And, like many a-good pilot, you know how to charm your way out of a disagreement."

"Yes ma'am."  I grin triumphantly.

She leans in close to me and whispers conspiratorially, "You've got a long way to go before you charm me, Commander."  She smirks.  "You still owe me on those Superbowl seats."

Ha.  I don't think I have that far to charm her at all.  I think history has proven that Sarah MacKenzie isn't immune to the Rabb charm.  However, I do believe there will be some retribution for leading her on…I hope there will be.  It'll give me a chance to prove the effectiveness of said charms.  Hell, the opportunity to try should be enjoyable enough.

Success in the endeavor would just be icing on the cake. 

"Well, I look forward to the challenge, marine."  We're standing nearly nose-to-nose now, and I think one of us might even close that distance if the sound of someone clearing his throat hadn't interrupted us.

We both look for the source.  Sturgis is leaning against the counter, watching us carefully.  "Sorry.  Can I just get to the sugar?"  

"Sure."

"Yeah, here," Mac hands him a couple of sugar packets and takes her leave.  "Later, commanders."

"Yeah." I answer.  Sturgis raises his mug in reply.  He casts a critical glance at me.

"So, was that just the two of you being 'chummy'?"  


	5. Chapter Five

1436 ZULU

JAG HQ

Falls Church, VA

So, she thinks I can't charm her, huh?  We'll see.  I could charm those marine greens right off of her.  But, one thing at a time.  Well, two, I suppose, really, considering I intend to charm her (thereby proving the point that I can…easily) into a date with me.

Hmm…must form a careful plan of attack, utilizing my considerable persuasive skills and my uncanny knack for subtlety.  She won't realize what hit her until it's too late—and it's highly unlikely she'll say no then, anyway.

Although, she could.  But—no, she won't.  I think.  And really, can one take much pleasure and pride in a date earned by subterfuge?  Hmmm.

Anyway, back to the business at hand: Operation CharmMac.  Operation Swoon.  Operation…operation…

"Sir?"

"Huh?"  I blink and find Tiner standing before me, a couple of folders clutched carefully in his hand.

"The admiral wanted me to give these to you.  They're information from Agent Webb regarding the Sorenson trial."

"Oh, thank you, Tiner."

"Yes, sir."  He takes his leave as I thumb through the folders.  Great.  Looks like our man Sorenson has quite a dirty trail behind him.  The only problem is it forks so many times, it'll probably take Mac and I forever to determine the extent of his unlawfulness.  She's not going to be thrilled to see this.

Hmm…on the other hand, it would give me a chance to charm her a little.  Well, when opportunity knocks…

I waltz into her office without announcing myself—at this point in our professional acquaintance she should know who waltzes into her office all the time without announcing himself—and she does.

"Don't you knock?"  She asks without looking up from her file.

"Nope," I reply.  I take a seat in one of the chairs before her desk and admire the sight before me.  An insistent lock of hair refuses to obey, as she keeps tucking and re-tucking it behind her ear.  As soon as she moves, it falls forward against her face again.  She scribbles a few notes on what looks to be a brief on a recent DDO case she won—against Sturgis—one of the few where we haven't been partnered together.  Given our rank and experience, the fact that we have been as much as late has been sort of a pleasant surprise—it's allowed us to reestablish and strengthen old connections…and build new ones, which reminds me why I'm here (well, one of the reasons why). 

Mac also reminds me of the other reason when she asks, "Was there something you need, Harm?"

A hundred different responses play on my lips as I try to determine which one to use.

"As a matter of fact…" I drawl.  She looks up and I smile (charmingly, I don't have to add).  I wink at her.  I know it flusters her.

Her brow slowly sinks into the corner of her eye, before arching in a perfect crescent moon.

"Yes..." she draws out, still trying to figure out where I'm going with this.  I'm not really sure where I'm going with it either, but I'm good at thinking on my feet.

"There is something I need."

She makes a gesture with her head indicating I should get to it.  Soon.

I raise an eyebrow suggestively, but say nothing further.  Her cheeks flush once she realizes my implication.

"Er, eh, hmm, is there something you need in regards to a case, commander?" she amends.  

"Oh, well, yes.  Tiner just brought these files by from Webb.  It doesn't look promising."

She scans through the documents quickly and emits a muttered, "Dammit."

"As you can see, we've got our work cut out for us."

"You have a gift for the understatement, Harm.  We'll be lucky to find even half of the infractions he's committed.  I really want to nail his ass to the wall."

"You and me both.  However, I'm beginning to think it may take a miracle to accomplish that."

She puts down the file, and stares at me.

"What?"

"Do I hear uncertainty?  Misgivings?  Little confidence in the legal abilities of the Great Harmon Rabb, Jr. U.S. Navy attorney?"  Oh, brother.  Here we go.  "Not to mention the _obvious_ insult to my considerable legal prowess."  I roll my eyes.

"You insult me, commander.  And I have to say I'm disappointed in you."

"What?"  She's got to be kidding me.  Insult?  Disappointed?  I'm just trying to be realistic.  And she should know—

"Mac, you know I think you're a great attorney," I state adamantly.

"Actually, I suppose that's true.  I did know that.  But I've never heard you really say it." Beat.  "Until now."  She grins devilishly.  "Anything else you care get to off your chest that I may already know…or at least suspect?"

This chair is uncomfortable.  This conversation is uncomfortable.  Mac's x-ray vision stare is damn uncomfortable.

"Uh, er, um, no, not at the moment."  I hedge.  It hits me a moment too late that those words all almost identical to the ones I said on that damned ferry ride in Sydney Harbor.  Oh for christ's sake, Rabb—please, let's not do that again.

"Okay.  If you're sure.  But if and when you're ready…" she drawls coyly, but I can see her expression isn't so lighthearted.

"You'll be the first to know," I reply softly.

She nods imperceptibly, and picks up the file again.  She stares at it for a moment.

"Shit."

My thoughts exactly.  I come in here, intending to take the opportunity to flaunt my irresistibility, and I damn near step in one of those relationship landmines that dog every step of our relationship.  'Good at thinking on my feet'?!  If words are bullets, I think I may have shot my foot off.

If I expect anything to come of this new turn in our relationship I'm going to have to try twisting my lips around those three little words.  Or at least come up with a way to convey that emotion that leaves no doubt as to my feelings towards her.

Shit, indeed.


	6. Chapter Six

1217 ZULU

JAG HQ

Falls Church, VA

"Hold the elevator!" I holler, hustling as fast as my heels can carry me loaded down with briefcase, laptop, cover, and umbrella.

A familiar masculine hand reaches out, and forces the closing doors open again.

"Thanks," I breathe, smiling at Harm.  

"Your welcome, Mac," he returns pleasantly.  He punches the button for our floor, and leans against the back of the elevator, crossing his arms over his chest.  It's then I notice that he's without briefcase, laptop, cover, and overcoat.

"How long have you been in the office?" I ask incredulously, making sure I put just enough astonishment in my voice to annoy him.

He refuses to be baited, however.

"Since 0645," he replies easily, watching me.  I swear--he's up to something.  I mean, Harmon Rabb, present and accounted for before the motor pool lanes open?  Present and accounted for before _me_?  

I drop everything but my cover and laptop, and reach up to press a hand against his forehead.  Since I'm touching him anyway, I let my hand trail down the side of his face, across the smooth, freshly-shaven curve of his cheek before finally pulling away.  Harm scowls, but makes no effort on his end to pull away from my touch.

"No, no fever," I murmur.  Another idea hits me, and I reach forward again to pinch his other cheek (the facial one, thank you), tugging gently on the flesh.

"Ow!"

Big baby.  "And it appears to be really you," I continue.  He rubs his red cheek petulantly.  I don't bother to hide my amusement.

"Of course it's me!"

"Well, I had to check.  For all I know, Palmer could have abducted you and took your place.  You can't say it hasn't happened before."

He doesn't reply as he continues to rub his cheek.  Really.  I didn't pinch it that hard.  Squids.

"Since you don't appear to be physically sick, nor does it appear that a psychotic DSD agent has assumed your identity, I can only conclude that you have fallen grievously ill in your mental faculties—there can be no other explanation," I announce with finality.

"Maybe I just wanted an early start to the day."

"Okay, who are you and what have you done with my partner?"

"Cute."

"He's about your height, has your slightly muscular build, jet black hair, same green eyes, killer—" I break off suddenly, as I realize my rambling has only served to inflate the already enormous pilot ego he has.  Instead of the scowl, I have the full-blown **killer** flyboy smile.  He raises his eyebrows politely, waiting for me to finish my sentence.

He can just wait a little longer.

"Anyway, I don't know why you think coming in early will help our case—we spent half the night on it and didn't come up with anything."

"Why, Colonel MacKenzie is that doubt I hear?  Misgivings?  Little confidence in the legal abilities of the Great Sarah MacKenzie, US Marine Corp attorney?"  He sounds like he's quoting something.

"I'm just trying to be realistic."

"Ha." He snorts.  "I said that the other day, and I believe you attacked me for insulting your 'legal prowess'." 

"You didn't say anything of the kind," I reply, recollecting the conversation in my office.

"Yes I did."

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I--hmm.  Well, I must've been thinking it." He states, as if that proves his point.  Which is?

"What else were you thinking that you failed to tell me?"

He grins mischievously.  "I don't think you want to know, Mac."

I get the impression that I probably don't.  However… 

"Try me."  I'm curious as to the types of thoughts that circulate in Harm's mind at any given moment—or at least any given moment with me.  

"Well…" he replies, a decidedly cocky smile on his face.  The elevator dings and we both look at it.  I quickly punch a button—I think to the floor below us, or the basement, I'm not sure.  

"You were saying?" I prompt as the doors close with a muffled clunk.  

He looks from the doors to me and shrugs.

"What was I saying?" he asks innocently.

"Harm…"

"Yes, Mac?"

"You were saying about your thoughts?"

"My thoughts?  Oh, my thoughts.  Yes, the mind of an aviator-turned-lawyer is an—"

"Yes, yes, you were probably thinking of g-forces, catapults, high altitudes, some leggy blond bimbo hanging off your gold wings, and maybe an actual case or two in that receptacle you call a brain."

"Actually she was brunette—and quite brilliant."

I am not going to show how pleased I am by that.  I am not going to show how pleased I am—wait a second.  He's not actually thinking _I_ would hang off his gold wings?  Knowing Harm's brain, he probably was.  Is.  

"Not your usual M.O.  Anyone I know?"

"Maybe."

"Really?  Where'd you meet this mystery woman?"

"In a rose garden—or actually, at the curb next to the path leading to the rose garden."

Leave it to Harm to suck the romance out of our first meeting.  I'm not about to critique his thoughts of me, though.

"So, what were you and this brilliant brunette doing—besides swooning all over you and your gold wings?"

"Marines don't swoon."

I didn't think it was possible for one's heart to beat so wildly in a non life-threatening situation.  Mine is beating so loudly I almost don't hear Harm's next few words.

"But, she was doing a brilliant imitation of it."

I swat him on the arm.

"More abuse?  Now I know why I make it a habit of coming in later than you—you're mean in the morning."

"I haven't had my coffee yet.  So, dream girl is a marine?" I say, getting back to the matter at hand, and relishing every word of that question.  My spirits soar even higher when I see Harm flush a little as he looks away.  The elevator dings again and I furiously press a button without ever tearing my gaze from my partner.

"And a brunette.  And brilliant.  Hmm…it _does_ sound like someone I know.  All except that swoon—or near swoon—part.  I mean it would have to take one hell of a sailor to illicit that sort of a response."

Harm gives me a mock-wounded expression.  "You don't think I can?"

"Honestly?" I quip.

"Even if I was, oh, apologizing profusely for misleading you about those Superbowl seats, let's say.  And I wanted to make it up to you," he says moving closer.

"Mm-hmm," I reply skeptically, not willing to be sucked into the Rabb charm too quickly.

"But you were making it difficult for me"—I flash him a stern look—"and rightfully so," he concedes.  "I might have to take to more…inventive methods…" His mouth is hovering right near mine, and I'm barely aware of the umbrella I step on in an effort to get even closer.

"Such as?" 

Touchdown.  Harm's lips descend on mine, as my laptop thuds to the floor.  Dimly, I hope it's all right, but I have to say most of my attention is occupied by the sensations Harm's evoking. 

We pull away quickly—much too quickly—neither of us wanting to be caught engaging in an indiscretion in the office elevator.  Harm gives me a sheepish, but unapologetic, grin.

"What do you say, Mac?  You agree to live and let live about those Superbowl seats?"

"Well, I might agree to dinner.  Just to give you the chance to do better.  We'll see about the seats."  

He smiles, pleased.  "I look forward to it, marine.  I know just the place."  He gives me a quick peck on the lips.

I smile, thinking this morning is shaping up nicely.

This time I barely even register the sound of the elevator doors opening, so engrossed am I in my partner and my thoughts.

"Colonel.  Commander," a deep voice greets us gruffly, shoving us back into the present.  Swiftly, I reach down to snatch my briefcase off the floor.  Harm picks up my umbrella and laptop and hands them to me.

"Morning, sir," he replies, leaning against the back of the elevator, very nearly the picture of nonchalance.

"You're here awfully early, Mr. Rabb.  Can I safely assume that isn't a sign of the apocalypse?" 

"No, sir.  Yes, sir.  Uh—"

"I trust you and the colonel are prepared to present your case today."  The admiral eyes us both suspiciously.  Damn.  I almost managed to forget about that.  Well, today _was_ shaping up be an enjoyable day.

"As a matter of fact, I was wanting to go over something I discovered in the information that Webb sent with the colonel.  Possibly the break we need."  I glance curiously at him, and he gives me a sort of half shrug that says, "there wasn't time this morning."  No, given the fifteen minutes we spent flirting in the elevator, I suppose there wasn't.

"Mm-hmm," the admiral says.  He proceeds to launch into a diatribe about our client, the secnav, media influence, and related JAG topics.  Harm nods or says "Yes, sir" about every eighth word, and I manage a few acknowledgements myself, but my mind is turning only with one thing.

I have a date with Harmon Rabb.


	7. Chapter Seven

01015 ZULU

Mac's Apartment 

Georgetown 

Saturday, February 9th —a date that will live in infamy: in 3 minutes 8 seconds Harm will (or should) arrive to pick me up for our first date.

I smooth my hair and skirt, undecided as to whether my hair looks better with the ends flipped out or in.  By the time I finish messing with my hair, the ends are doing both.  Oh well.  I check my appearance again, first a front view, then a side, then what I can see of the back.  Everything looks to be in order.

Where is he?  He still has 2 minutes and 23 seconds, but does he have to be so punctual?  He better damn well not be late either—I don't think I could stand waiting a moment longer than necessary.  

In my opinion, I've waited six years on his sorry six already—if he has any brains at all—and if he values his life—he'd better get here soon.

I wring my hands together, trying to measure my steps around my living room into a slow turn about the couch instead of the frenzied pacing my legs want to give into.

Jingo watches each nervous movement of my hands, pondering the absurd behavior of his normally levelheaded master.  I can tell by his expression that I am keeping him from a nice snooze, which he will most likely take on my bed or the couch as soon as I'm gone.

"Just one minute and seven seconds until…" Until what?  The official new beginning of "us"?  The most important date I've ever had?  No, I'd better not think about all that.  It's a date.  A date with Harm, but it's still a date.  You've been on lots of dates before, MacKenzie.  You've had dinner before with Harm.  You've danced--several times—before with Harm.  

_Yes, but never with the prospect of romance such an attainable goal.  This could be the moment you look back on when you tell your grandchildren about you and their grandfather's first date, _a little voice inside my head answers.

"It's just Harm," I insist.  Jingo looks disbelievingly at me.  Or maybe it's just me.  "Oh, you're right," I sigh, dropping into a chair.  "It's just Harm, the infuriatingly complex sailor I love."  Jingo wags his tail.  "Just remember only you, me, and Sturgis are aware of that fact, and I'd like to keep it that way.  At least for a little while longer."  He thumps his tail twice in what I can only guess is a doggie affirmation of his silence.

A knock sounds at my door and I manage to stand on my shaky legs, and walk with some semblance of control to the door.

Harm stands in my hallway with his hands clasped behind his back, dressed in a black suit with a blue shirt and tie.  I lock my knees.

"Hey, sailor."  He returns my grin with a lopsided one of his own.  I feel a tremor in my leg.

"You look stunning, marine," he says and I feel my face flush.

"Thanks, you're not so bad yourself.  You clean up real nice," I add jokingly, but my delivery is somewhat stiff.

"Thanks."  He leans in and swiftly places a kiss on my lips.  I must look surprised because he explains, "I've been wanting to do that since Friday."

I grin foolishly.  I could die happy right now—just from knowing he's here for a date with me, and that's all he's been thinking about—and we haven't even left my apartment.

We stand there staring at each other for a few minutes until it dawns on Harm that we'll be late for our dinner reservations if we keep gawking.  Finally, he offers his arm.  "You ready?"  I nod and take it.  Harm flashes me another grin, a captivating flyboy smile, but when I look into his eyes I can see it: Harmon Rabb, Jr. is nervous as hell.

*********

"So, what do you think?" he asks the moment we're seated and left with our menus.

"About?" I glance over my menu—he certainly went all out.  Everything looks pricey.  I steal a look at our patrons and am relieved to see that I'm dressed appropriately for such an establishment.  I didn't expect Harm to treat me to a night on the town, which is what it seems this is shaping up like.  From what he mentioned, I expected to enjoy dancing to the RnB classics and a nice hunk of meat (the meal, not Harm).

To be fair, he could have asked me to a hoedown, and I still would've said yes.

He doesn't elaborate on his question, merely picks up his own menu and proceeds to look over its contents.  "You look real nice, Mac," he says after a minute.

"Thank you," I return.  "This is a lovely place, Harm."  He nods in acknowledgement.  

"I thought you might like it."  We're both silent. 

"Have you eaten here before?" I ask.

"Once."  He seems to concentrate even harder on his menu.  I feel a nervous flutter in my stomach as I realize the last time he was here it was probably with some girlfriend.  

"Oh," is all I can manage.  That's all in the past, MacKenzie.  If you're going to make something with Harm you're going to have to let go.  I laugh silently at that.  "So, what's good here?"

"Well, what I think is good here you would probably classify as rabbit food, or some comparable feast," he says, a smile playing on his lips.  "But I hear the filet mignon is to die for." 

"How did you hear about this place?  It's very…classy," I probe.

"Are you saying I'm not?" Harm raises an eyebrow at me.

"No, no.  It's just…not the type of restaurant your average naval commander would dine at frequently."

"Average?  Not to toot my own horn, Mac, but I hardly think I'm just average."  

"I have to say I am a little bit surprised, Harm."

"About what?"  He chuckles nervously.

"This.  Dinner.  Everything."

"Why is that?  You think just because your 'good ole marine Mac' that I would take you to Beltway?"

I laugh.  "No.  Not that Beltway is such a bad choice—"

"--Yes, the way to a marine's heart is a burger loaded with fat, grease, ketchup and cholesterol."

"Watch it, commander.  No, I guess I just wasn't expecting you to go all—you know--I don't know what I was expecting.  It seemed for such a long time like such an impossibility that _this_ would ever happen, I'm not sure what I imagined."

"Well, did you think that I was going to tell our children I took their mother to Beltway Burgers for their two-for-one double greaseburgers on our first date?"

I smile embarrassedly, "Harm—"

"And besides, I'm still trying to make up for the Superbowl seats, remember?"  He gives me a boyish grin, the lines I have noticed lately around his eyes and forehead smoothing away, leaving a Harm very much like the one I first met in the rose garden all those years ago.  

"I may forgive you for the seats," I announce magnanimously.  "I'll let you know after this evening."

********

We dance for a while, taking a short break for a slice of German chocolate cheesecake (me) and a cup of coffee (Harm).

Afterwards, we take a late night stroll around the mall, sticking to safe topics such as the weather, Jingo, or Sergei.  It feels--not like an evening spent with a very close friend—who knows me better than anyone—but rather like a blind date.  Both of us seem a bit unsure as to what to say, what to do, what behavior is appropriate for us now.  I almost laugh out loud when I think of our current dilemma compared with our behavior in the office as of late.  At JAG, we seem to have little problem bending—oh who are you kidding, MacKenzie?—breaking the rules to accommodate our flirtatious behavior and our raging hormones.  

Here we are on a damn date, and the only action I've experienced thus far is that kiss—in retrospect, that little tiny peck on the lips Harm gave me when he arrived at my doorway.

I'm a marine for crying out loud—I can handle some action.  I _crave_ action.  I have half a mind to jump Harm right now and remind him who he's dealing with.

Whoa.  Where did that come from?  Calm down, marine.  You don't have to prove to the masses (or at the very least, Harm) just how long it's been since a guy showed some real physical interest.  Damn.  How long _has_ it been?  Oh, please, not since Mic, not since…Christ.  Wasn't that _last_ year?!  

Jesus.  Okay.  Deep breath, marine.  Okay, you know a year…a year isn't bad.  

In some cultures.  

And you've just been careful about putting your heart on the line too quickly—you didn't want another Mic fiasco.  Nothing wrong with that.

No, what you really didn't want was another Harm fiasco.  You've spent the past, oh, ten months, waiting for him to get his head out of his ass and realize his feelings for you.  

Calm, calm.  He has.  I think.  I mean, we're here on this date.  We're pursuing this relationship we've always wondered about having.  I glance at Harm, wondering if he's noticed my reticence, but he's babbling on about something Sturgis said.

It's time to take charge, marine.  Semper Fi.  Do or die.  I reach for the lapels of Harm's jacket and wrench him around to face me.  I jerk the collar towards me, pulling his head down to my level, and then I don't stop kissing him until my lungs are burning with the same intensity as my lips.

When we finally come up for air, our short puffs of breath visible in the cold night air, I realize one of Harm's arms has found its way around my waist, while the other is draped loosely across my back, his fingers playing with my hair.

"Am I boring you, marine?" he tries to ask nonchalantly, but his short pants give him away.

"A little.  I guess I'm just not much in the mood for conversation."  I flex my fingers over his chest and get another firm grip on his coat.  He beats me to the punch as he pulls me tight against him.  Damn, this man kisses good.

We pull away and start walking again, our pace just noticeably faster than before.  I slip my arm through Harm's, a nervous fluttering taking root again deep within my stomach.  Harm's answering smile does nothing to alleviate the sensation.

I think the same question is on both our minds: when it comes time to take me home, then what?

********

Eventually, after a circuitous stroll back to the car, our evening out comes to an end and Harm takes me home.  My feet are killing me by the time we reach my apartment.  Two hours of dancing and then a stroll in new, unyielding 3-inch stilts are enough to cripple me for the next two weeks.  My discomfort, despite my best efforts otherwise, is evident with every step.

"You gonna make it, Mac?"

"Yeah," I moan.  I fumble for my key.  Harm produces his and opens my door with a flourish.  That numbs the pain a little.  We stand awkwardly, both of us unsure what to say or do next.

God, we're pathetic.  Think, MacKenzie, think.  You can tell him you had a nice time.  Too trite, even if it is true.  You can invite him in for coffee—a-ha!  There you go.  You used to do that all the time anyway.

"Coffee?" I ask, smiling at my brilliance, and my handsome partner.

Harm looks unsure.  

"Um, it's not too late?" He asks uncertainly.

No.  He's been here later than…is it really 2:30?!  Well, he's been here later than that.  I tug on his sleeve, indicating he should come in.  "Of course not.  I won't be able to sleep for hours anyway," I blurt out.  Harm grins conceitedly as I give myself a mental shake.  

I roll my eyes at him, and hobble towards the kitchen.  Halfway there, I fling my heels off my feet.  Harm ducks as one whizzes by his head.  He carefully replaces the stack of paleontology books the other one knocked down.

"_Un_comfortable shoes?" He asks, smirking.

"Two out of three isn't bad," I mumble.  Louder, "Make yourself at home."

"Mac," he says in that tone of voice that demands attention.  I stop and turn.

"Sit down and let me get the coffee.  Your feet must be killing you."  Normally, I'd give him a whole spiel about how I'm a Marine, and that I can, despite my temporary near-paralysis, make something as mundane as coffee, but my feet really are killing me, and if I limp enough to the couch I'm sure I'll get a nice foot massage from Harm.

Sure enough, as soon as my six hits the cushion, Harm bends down to take one of my ankles.  "Here," he says, tugging gently on my foot.  I lean back and place both of them in his lap.

I groan in pleasure as he begins to knead and twist my foot and toes.  After about ten minutes, he switches to my left.  Despite my earlier declaration, I find my eyelids growing heavier by the minute.

God, I'm tired.

I choke down a yawn and, instead, focus on Harm.  

"You can stay here, you know, tonight," I murmur sleepily.  He says nothing, just twists my foot between his expert fingers.  A moment later I feel his arms around me, and his lips pressing a kiss against my cheek.

********

The next morning I awaken to an empty bed.  I'm still dressed in the skirt and blouse I wore last night, the covers tucked carefully around me.  I feel eyes upon me and when I look to find whom they belong to I come upon an anxious Jingo, thumping his tail hopefully.


	8. Chapter Eight

1145 ZULU

Mac's Apartment

Georgetown

Valentine's Day.  Often a black holiday in the MacKenzie household.  Not so, this year.  Harmon Rabb, Jr. is my valentine this hyperglycemic holiday, and that alone sends me bouncing out of my apartment and into my car better than any five-pound box of chocolates would.

That and the surprise I cooked up for Harm this morning as I was blow-drying my hair.  I snicker.  This is going to be good.  I just hope I can maintain my poker face.

Harm and I have shared dinner a couple of times this week since our first date, going over cases mostly, but we did manage to catch a TV-movie of the week.  Not that big of a deal, but it was a couple hours of just enjoying each other's company, with a concerted effort made at ignoring all work matters.  

Our burgeoning relationship is still a new and delicate thing, so neither of us have made much mention of this candy hearts-filled holiday, though it would surprise me if Harm didn't have _something_ up his sleeve.  We're both trying not to make too big a deal out of…anything.  

But this, this is just too good to pass up.

*********

At 1045 I see Harriet and a young (and kind of cute) delivery boy exchange pleasantries and directions.  Her brow furrows in unbridled curiosity as she takes the two-dozen red roses from him.  I know she's itching to see who they're from.  I bite down a laugh.

Harm, with perfect if clueless timing, takes that moment to step out of his office.

"Commander—"

He stops and looks at Harriet.  "Wow.  Those are beautiful, Harriet."

"Thank you, sir—"

"Bud must have a special evening planned."  He winks.  Harriet smiles and tries again.

"Ac—"

"Yes, the Lieutenant has excellent taste," Sturgis offers his two cents.

It's Lieutenant Colonel, actually, and thanks Sturgis.

"Lt. Sims, I see Mr. Roberts is giving you his due," the Admiral remarks.

"Well, sir—"

Showtime.

"Harriet, those are gorgeous," I croon.

"Harriet, where did you get those?"  Four heads turn towards Bud.

"Actually, they're for Commander Rabb," Harriet finally manages to get out.

Four heads turn back to Harm who looks as surprised as everyone else—well, most everyone else, I amend.

Sturgis and the Admiral raise an eyebrow while Bud and Harriet bubble in curiosity.  I just hope I look as incredulous as the rest.  I'm having a hard time not blowing the whole thing by laughing out loud.

Harriet presents the flowers to Harm who takes them in an effort to avoid everyone's stares.  He looks a little flustered.

I can see the gears turning as he tries to figure out who sent him roses.  He risks one cautious, suspicious glance in my direction, but Harriet distracts him by saying, "There's a card."

Harm risks another glance at everyone and realizes he's not going to avoid a public reading of its contents.

I love it when a plan comes together.

He hands the flowers back to Harriet and plucks the envelope out of the bunch.

Harm frowns a little as he skims the contents, then his face takes on a slightly pink tint, and he coughs nervously.  He gives us an apologetic smile, and I know he's about to conjure an escape.

"So who are they from, Sir?" Bud asks excitedly, as clueless as Harm was a few moments ago.  I love Bud.

"I don't know," Harm replies, letting out a nervous chuckle.  "It doesn't say."

"Oooh, a secret admirer," Harriet squeals.  "How romantic."  Tears prick my eyes and I know I'm not going to make it.

"Maybe that girl in Vermont sent them.  You two seemed to hit it off," Sturgis offers.  Harm shoots Sturgis a death glare.

On second thought, I don't really feel all that much like laughing now.  What?!

"I barely even know her.  Besides all we did is exchange some polite chit-chat at the coffee bar—we never exchanged phone numbers or addresses or anything like that." 

"Well, you told her you worked at JAG HQ, right?"

"Yeah," Harm admits reluctantly.

"Well, it's not too hard to find that address, and send flowers to a Commander Harmon Rabb, Jr.  I just didn't think you were really all that interested in her."

"I wasn't.  I'm not," he states emphatically, mostly for my benefit, I surmise.  I raise an eyebrow.  So does the Admiral.

"Sounds like you might have made another friend," I remark.

"I hardly know her.  Besides, she isn't my type."  What not blonde, leggy and big-breasted?

"Well, you said there's no signature right?" Harriet cuts in.  "So it could be anyone."  

Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Sturgis watching Harm and I carefully.  I take a conscious effort to relax.

"Well, what does the card say?" I ask innocently.  "Maybe we can reason out who may have sent it."

The Admiral shifts expectantly.  I return Harm's glare with a beatific smile.  He clears his throat,

_"'To my favorite Flyboy,_

_Last time we crashed and burned._

_But I think our luck has changed for the better._

_Maybe this time we can try our hand at the 'Mile High and Mach 2 Club'_

_Your Valentine.'"_

I feel much better as I watch Harm croak out the last few words, his face now a definitive shade of red.  He doesn't dare look at the Admiral, but the rest of us are writhing in an effort to control our amusement.  I risk a glance at the Admiral and see his eyes glinting and his lips twitch several times.  

I have to cover my mouth and cough when I hear Bud murmur, "Hmmm."

"Who calls you flyboy?" he asks.

"Everybody," Harm replies.

"The Colonel," Sturgis adds.  Harm, Sturgis, the Admiral, and Harriet level their gaze at me.  The Admiral raises his eyebrow again, Sturgis smirks, Harriet pierces me with a thoughtful expression, and Harm eyes me with suspicious consideration.

"Renee called you flyboy, too," I point out.  I just hope it isn't too obvious that I'm trying to deflect the heat off me.  Harm grimaces slightly at the reminder.  I remind myself to feel victorious at a later, more private date.

"It also says 'we crashed and burned before,'" Bud continues.  "Maybe a former girlfriend?"

"If we go through that list, we'll be here all day," the Admiral mutters.  Harm gives him a wounded look.  "Okay, people, back to work.  Rabb, take those things from the Lieutenant and get them out of the way of JAG Ops."

"Yes, sir."  He retrieves his bouquet and escapes to his office.

"'Mile high and Mach 2 club'?" Bud splutters, trying to maintain some control.

I burst out laughing.  Sturgis and Bud follow suit.

Somewhere, over the din, I hear Harm's door slam shut.

Well, I'll see how long it takes him to figure it out.


	9. Chapter Nine

I just finish my scathing email to Mac, promising much retribution for this…this…swell idea of hers to send me flowers, when there's a quick knock at my door and Sturgis pokes his head in.

"Got a minute, Harm?"  I nod yes as I click send.  I'll get you my little marine.  And to think I had a nice evening planned for the two of us.  That, of course, is shot to hell—I can't let an opportunity to show my fun-loving, scheming marine who exactly she's dealing with go by.

And maybe, in the process, we can start the application procedure for the 'Mile High and Mach 2 Club'.  No reason why our Valentine's Day has to be a total waste.

"Harm!"

"Huh?  Oh, sorry, Sturgis.  You were saying?"

He gestures to my bouquet of roses, sitting on the edge of my desk.  "Do you really have no idea who sent those?"

Honestly?  I know _exactly_ who sent those.  She's no doubt basking in her glory in her office.  I swear if you just cock an ear, you can hear the faintest whisper of "Semper Fi!" pass through the walls.  

Instead, I reply, "No, I haven't the faintest, Sturgis."

"You know…" he begins, and takes a seat in one of the chairs in front of my desk.

"Yes…?" I have a feeling I don't want to hear whatever it is he's trying to figure out how to say.

"Do you ever think—" he begins again, and abruptly changes gears.  "Look—I know this is really not any of my business, but…" he seems to lose his confidence again.

I'm losing my patience, as well.  "What is it you're trying to get at?  Just say it, Sturgis."

"You and Mac," he blurts.  Dammit, why did I encourage him?  "You say there's nothing going on between you, and yet…"

"And yet?" I prompt impatiently, furiously trying to think of a way out of this conversation without having to resort to outright lying.

"And yet, I always sense something…some undercurrent."

"Tension," I reply automatically.

"There's more to it than that."

"What does this have to do with the flowers?" I ask.

"I just…maybe, maybe you don't think of your relationship with Mac as anything that can go beyond friendship, but…I wonder…I mean…are you sure that Mac feels the same way?"

"Why, did she say something?"

"No, no," he answers a little too quickly, springing my cross-examination skills to life.  "Anyway," he continues on just as hastily, "did you ever think of how those flowers might be perceived by Mac?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I mean…it's obvious…that Mac cares for you…very much…and…"

And suddenly I get the eerie sensation that Sturgis knows something I don't in regards to the convoluted mess that is Mac's and my relationship.  Something big.

"Did she say something?" I ask again.  I suppose this is really all moot.  Mac and are, well, dating, so obviously there is more than just friendship there—so if what Sturgis is trying so desperately to tell me (and not to tell me) is that Mac has romantic feelings for me, I don't suppose I should really be all that surprised.

"No, no."  This is said in the same tone and haste as he previous denial.  "I just—look, it's Valentine's Day.  And Mac is, well, single, and just watching the two of you, maybe she's feeling a little jealous.  She looked kind of upset when you mentioned that girl from Vermont."

"When _you_ mentioned that girl from Vermont.  She was the furthest thing from my mind."  Thank you, also, Sturgis, for reminding me to kill you in our next game of basketball.

"Anyway, my point is there's no need to rub it in.  Be sensitive."

"Sensitive!"  I don't believe this.  "And I wasn't rubbing it in!  It's not like I sent those damned things to myself just so I could become the center of attention for a few minutes."  No, dear, fragile, "jealous" Mac did that.  I'm going to kill her, too.

Sturgis holds up his hands in a placating gesture.  "Just—think about it."

My email notice dings, signaling the arrival of new mail, and Sturgis takes that as his cue to leave.  "I'll let you get back to work."

I nod absently as I open the reply from Mac to my message.  Down at the bottom, under my last threat, are two sentences, followed by two icons:

"Your face was as red as the roses!  Ha, Ha!"  A smiley rolling over and over, and another, sticking out his tongue, concludes her reply.

Sensitive indeed.

*********

I pulled the blinds closed as soon as I entered my office, so at least no one can see me grinning stupidly as I read Harm's email.  They might, however, be able to hear my stifled guffaws, but that just can't be helped.

It's relatively short in length—unusual for my usually chatty Harm—but it's about what I expected.  And just as I thought, he did have something planned for tonight—now allegedly scrapped in favor of whatever payback he is cooking up, to "punish" me, I suppose.  I'll have to wear something nice—and make sure I break out the good underwear—something lacy and racy.  Just in case.

Below Harm's last feeble threat, I type my response and hit send.  I feel the corners of my mouth quirk up again in another smile before someone raps on my door and Sturgis enters.

"Sturgis," I greet, trying to regain some of my professionalism.

"Hey, Mac."  He takes a seat in one of my chairs.

"What's up?" 

"I just wanted…to see…how you were doing."

"Fine."  Why is he asking?

"You're okay, about Harm and the flowers, and…mystery girl?"

_Ohhhhhhh_…I nearly choke on my coffee when I realize his implication.  

At least it drowns out my laughter.

"Oh, that," I reply, wondering how I can respond to this without outright lying.  

"Yes, 'that,'" Sturgis confirms.  "You okay?"

"Yeah, you know, Harm getting flowers didn't really bother me."

Sturgis raises his eyebrow in doubtful concern.

"Really.  And besides, I've decided, not to let stuff like that bother me anymore.  The, uh, flowers, the girl in Vermont—I'm not going to give into petty feelings of jealousy.  That kind of stuff--flirting, the attention from females--is just Harm—it's always surrounded Harm.  If you want to be friends with Harm, you just have to get used to it."  Ah, there, pretty close to the truth.

"And if you want to be _more_ than friends with Harm?" he asks pointedly.

Great.

"Well, flying into a jealous fit won't do anything to bring you closer to that mark.  Harm's not really fond of the jealous, clingy types."  Also not a lie.  "Anything else?"

"I'm just concerned for you, counselor.  I know how you feel about Harm.  I just wanted to make sure you're okay with this.  From that card, it sounded…well, not serious, but a serious threat to your relationship with Harm—the relationship you want to have with Harm."

I smile softly at Sturgis, touched by his concern for my feelings in the matter.  I almost feel guilty for the flower prank.

Almost.

"Well, I'm okay, Sturgis.  And from Harm's reaction, I don't think we're going to have any serious hindrances in our friendship," I emphasize.  I don't want to give Sturgis any more reason to focus his attention on Harm and I then what already exists.

"Yeah, I don't think he has a clue who sent him roses."  Sturgis chuckles.

Guess again, Sturgis.

"Well, as I said, I don't think this will hurt Harm and I.  So, have I satisfied all your concerns?"

He smiles.  "Yes, I suppose you have.  I'm glad to see you taking a positive approach to this, Mac.  Well," he says standing up, "I've got work to do, and I know you do, too.  Later, colonel."

"Later."

Bobbi has to be a moron if she lets Sturgis get away.


	10. Chapter Ten

**********

Judging by the way she sashays into my apartment, she has a pretty good idea what to expect tonight.  She spins around gracefully, taking in the whole of my apartment, every book, light, and remote, a not too unattractive smirk on her face, and looks expectantly at me.

"Roses," she says, indicating the dining room table.  "How nice."  She grins widely.  She makes a big show of going over to the arrangement and inhaling their scent.  I'm still standing by the door, holding it ajar.  She's dressed to kill: a black lace cocktail-type dress, with a scoop neck that accents her perfect form, complete with a pair of very high high heels (which don't look the least bit comfortable, for the record), and a matching purse, which she places next to the flowers.  I finally close the door, and step towards her.

"Yes, somebody at work gave them to me," I begin.  I see her shoulders quiver in what I can only guess is quiet laughter.  "A note, too."  I pull the card out of my pocket and begin to read aloud.

By the time I get to the 'mile high and mach 2 club,' which, through a miracle of God I am able to say with a straight, somewhat pale face, she's given up trying to hide her amusement.  In fact, she's doubled over before me, laughing out loud.

"Oh, you think this is funny?" I say, placing both hands on hips—not that she can see me.  She's still facing the floor, grasping her side while desperately (but inadequately) trying to get her amusement under reign.  She gives up and nods.

"…Your face…" she chokes out.  "I'm not sure…if I ever…seen you…that red…before…"  

"I can't _believe_ you sent something like this to the office."  I wave the card around down by her face.  She finally stands erect, her face suddenly solemn.

"You're very handsome when you blush," she manages to get out before she starts chuckling again.  I roll my eyes.  

"I'm serious, Mac.  I mean, the admiral, Bud, Harriet…Sturgis," I add, thinking of his 'helpful' office visit.  She only laughs harder.  "What if they suspect something, Mac?  I thought we were going to keep it quiet about us."  Again, she nods, the gesture punctuated by each spurt of laughter she emits.

"Are you quite finished?" I ask testily, growing tired of her frivolity.  She shakes her head 'no.'  "Fine.  When you're done tee-heeing over your ingenious prank let me know.  I'm going to dinner."

"Harm!  Harm," she gasps, the sudden absence of giggles replaced by a somewhat charming, I admit grudgingly, case of the hiccups.  Her entire face, as a matter of fact, is aglow with happiness, and I feel my annoyance fade a notch upon looking at her.  She's quite beautiful.  Her fingers, soft and delicate, wrap around my forearm as she gently tugs me back to her.

"I'm sorry," she says, looking somewhat sincere.  If I ignore the mischievous glint in her eyes, that is.  And her twitching lips.  And those hiccups, which are really laughter in disguise, anyway.

"And besides, it was funny.  Admit it."

I give her my best 'you've-got-to-be-kidding-me' look.  "Which part?  The part where I had to read aloud the contents of _this_"--I wave the card again—"or perhaps when the entire office—at _your_ urging--went through my dating history to determine my secret admirer, or maybe when Sturgis came into my office and gave me a lesson on being 'sensitive' to your feelings."

She sobers up a little at that.  "He said that?"

"Yes," I huff.  She smiles a little.  

"He's just being a good friend," she defends softly.

"And I'm not?"  She smiles again, this time a weird expression flickering across her face, but it's gone before I can really analyze it.

"You're my best friend," she affirms.  "Maybe a little more than that," she adds, stepping close enough to slip her arms around my neck.  

"Well, I should hope you're not doing this with Sturgis."  She gives me a sweet kiss on the lips that quickly intensifies as our mouths melt together.  "Or that," I add when we part, breathless.  "Or any of the behavior we've been engaging in at the office."

I'm not sure what's funny about that, but it seems to set her off again.  I heave a sigh.

She waves her hand around, indicating she'll only be a minute.  It's about three before she finally calms down.  Seeing my expression, she leans forward again, tightening her hold on me, and cocks her head to the side.

"I'm sorry."  She actually sounds like she means it this time.  She toys with the hair at the nape of my neck.  "What can I do to make it up to you?"  

I grin inwardly.  I've got her right where I want her.  Everything's going exactly as planned.  Outwardly, I frown a little and gaze into her eyes as though I'm thinking.

Despite having already conjured a response to such a question, about half a dozen remarks flit across my tongue as I wrestle with control over my hormones.  It's been a long time since I've been with a woman.  A damn long time.  Certainly longer than I care to admit to, but I don't want to rush things too fast with Mac, so I manage to stay on my present course and reply with my predetermined response.

"Well…"

*********

"This is so frustrating!"

"Keep going, you'll get it," I advise.  She flashes me a dirty look.  I shrug.  "Hey, I didn't start this," I remind her. 

"I didn't know you were going to be such a sore loser," she taunts.

"Loser?  Who said anything about losing?  If you want to talk 'loser', might I remind you you're still five clues away from redemption.  Provided of course, you progress on to those, which, I must admit, doesn't seem very promising."

"You're very irritating, you know."

"I know."

She picks up the seven slips of paper she's accumulated so far and studies each message written on them.  I take this opportunity to pat myself on the back.  Commander, you're a genius.  There have been times, I admit, where I've suspected it (long since suspected it, if truth be told)—and okay, (if truth be told here as well) times where I've suspected I fall way down on the other end of the spectrum, but I really outdid myself here.

She quickly flips to the next message in line, and I pause in my reflection to admire the view.  

She is lovely.  And I'm in love with her.  We're not very far into this new phase of our relationship and I already know that.  Hell, I suppose I've known it for a long time.  But now…now it's come clean or bust.  I suppose it's progress that I can finally admit my feelings for her to myself.  For so long I refused to acknowledge even the possibility—okay, I refused to entertain the possibilities of loving her.  It just seemed too hard and too complicated.  And we both let so many things get in our way.

But now…

Now, I am so tired of fighting it.  I spent too many long, draining hours in that icy ocean.  Too long recovering and spending that time in recovery—three months—without her.  Too long watching her become more involved with Brumby, while I did nothing, and maybe could have—hell, I know I could have.

The simple fact is I'm getting older; and while my career is going strong, it would be understating the obvious to say that my personal life isn't.  Or wasn't, at any rate.  I was about as close to settling down as Singer is to inheriting the admiral's office.  At any rate, it's time for me to figure out what I want out of life, and go for it.  And I want Sarah.  I want a family.  I want a family with Sarah.

"Harm…" she pouts, drawing me away from my thoughts.  Dear god she's pouting and she looks damn delicious doing it.  I don't care that she's trying to sucker me.  She's indulging me, I know, with her coquettish behavior—this is something I won't see too often--but I don't mind.    

"Yes?"

She bites her lip, as though debating.  "At least give me a hint."

"Oh no, marine, I don't think that would be fair, do you?"

"Haaarrrmmm…" she whines.  I chuckle.  "Just a little one," she pleads.

"I don't know," I say, in a tone that says I might be swayed.  And I might not.  "This is supposed to be your retribution for those flowers."  She raises her eyebrow.  "And ruining the perfect Valentine's Day dinner I had planned."

"Please?"  She bats her eyelashes and gives me an inviting smile.  Screw dinner.  This is better than anything I had planned.  

"Why, Sarah MacKenzie, are you trying to seduce me?"

She grins even wider.  "Commander, if I were trying to seduce you, I would have succeeded a long time ago."

I suspect she's right, but I have to put up a front anyway.

"Really?  That sure, are we?"

The open-mouthed grin is replaced by a very seductive smile and I feel all my sense and good intentions rush out of the room, along with the blood in my head.  She sets the clues I had scripted for her down on the end table, and inches towards me on her knees.

"Oh, I'm positive," she whispers, sliding her hand just below my knee.  The lawyer in me wants to point out that I've already resisted her overtures once—that damned ferry ride where she offered to go topless (and more) for me, if only I say the word—I found the strength (or the stupidity) to refuse her.  Although, I wasn't really refusing her, just asking her to give me a little more time to get the mess my life was then in order, but no since splitting hairs now.  Bringing that particular incident up would undoubtedly kill her seductive spirit right now, and truly ruin my Valentine's Day—and quite possibly any chance for something amazing with Mac, given my penchant for screwing things up in our relationship courtesy of the extremely vast synapse between my brain and mouth.  

But if 'a long time ago' only includes maybe the last three or four months, then, yeah, I don't think I would have given her too much flak.

"I'm not so sure, marine."  She's on her knees between my legs now, staring at me with heavy-lidded eyes, her hands resting lightly on my thighs.  

"Really?" She scoffs.   She reaches up, hands pressing down on my legs to give her the momentum to halfway stand up, and presses her lithe body against mine.  I feel her hot breath against my chin before she closes the distance between us.  

Goddamn, can this woman kiss.  

My hands slide along her back, my brain just focused enough to realize there's no back zip, and I'm alternately annoyed and relieved by the fact.  Well, relieved may be too strong a word, but I was serious when I said I didn't want to rush things with Mac.  Really.  I mean, we've only been going out for a week or so.  

The problem is that it's been so long since I've had…relations, and I've wanted Mac for so long and so badly that if she doesn't stop this, I can't guarantee that I will.  (I can't even guarantee that I might make an effort—too much risk of her agreeing we should slow things down.)  We haven't discussed sex, yet.  In the four cardinal rules we chartered out on exploring our relationship, sex seemed to fall under the "not rush things" and "just let things happen" guidelines.

Great.  As if I don't have enough opportunity for interpretation and debate in my life.

"Mac…" I manage to get out during a short break for breath.  She doesn't reply, just focuses her attention on the juncture of my jaw and neck.  She traces her lips along one side before switching to the other.

"Uh, Mac, uh, maybe we should, you know…" what?  Slow this down?  Talk about this?  Neither is particularly appealing.  Move this to the bedroom?  Dear god, I hope I didn't say that out loud.  I jerk nervously at the thought, enough to jar Mac out of her ministrations.  She looks confusedly at me.

"Uh…" I say unintelligently, trying desperately to construct a few coherent sentences.

"Maybe we should—I should…I should check on dinner," I finally choke out, shifting off the couch and taking her with me.  She plops down in my stead, arms crossed and a genuine pout marring her face.  "I'll…I'll just be a moment.  One moment."  I hold up a finger, emphasizing my point, and quickly haul ass to the stove.

Okay, Rabb.  Think.  

Why am I here?  In the kitchen, I mean.  When I could be over on the couch satisfying my curiosity about that tattoo I always wonder about.  Yes, Rabb, why are you here, instead of over there in her arms having the best Valentine's Day in a long time.  You're debating whether or not you're ready to progress to the next level with Mac, when all her actions indicate she's more than ready and willing, and is just waiting on your sorry ass to get with the program—and she's waited on you long enough in her life.

I quickly flip the burner for the pasta down to the lowest setting.  After a moment, I slowly click it off.  Checking to see that everything else is in order (and to see that there are no more interruptions), I hasten back to the sofa.

"Now, where were we?"  I ask, flashing her my best smile.  I take a seat next to her, eliciting another look from Mac before that wicked little smile surfaces again.  Carefully, she leans forward and slowly eases me onto my back, our lips never losing contact.  I wrap my arms around her again, and begin the apparently not-so-subtle search for how to slip her dress off.  I'm just about to conclude whipping it over her head, when she stops and sits up.  Smiling, she reaches for a zipper just along her side.  

She has her fingers on it when the phone rings.  We both tear our eyes away from each other to look at it, before returning our gaze to the other.  She's clearly as perturbed as I am over the interruption.  Dammit, I should have remembered to turn off the ringer.

"Leave it," she advises, echoing my thoughts.  I nod wholeheartedly.  Slowly, she inches the zipper down, the ringing of the phone becoming quieter and quieter with each centimeter of open zipper gained as I focus all my attention on her.  She's just about to slip the garment off her shoulders when the machine picks up.

"Commander!"  Dammit, dammit, dammit.  Should've turned that off, too.  Nothing like a mood damper than your C.O. calling on Valentine's Day just when you're about to get lucky with the partner you've only ever dreamed about being with.  I heave a _very_ heavy sigh of disappointment.  So does Mac.  

"Commander, pick up!  I know you're there," Admiral Chegwidden commands.  How does he know that?!  It _is_ Valentine's Day, and therefore conceivable I have a date.  And why does he just assume I'm home?  Alone.  I did, after all, receive those damn roses—I could very well be out enjoying the company of the person who sent them.  I sit up with another sigh and a look at Mac, who now has everything in order, before stalking over to the phone.

"Listen commander, when you get this message call me _imme--_"

Picking up the receiver, I cut in, somewhat testily, "Sir?" 

"Commander?"

_Yes, you're calling me at my home_**,** I jab silently, _who do you think would pick up?_  "Yes, Sir."

"Good.  I've been trying to reach the colonel, too.  Is she with you?" he asks suspiciously.  Or maybe that's my oxygen-deprived brain.  I panic for a moment, wondering how he knows, before a tiny voice of reason reminds me that he doesn't, and is just asking after her whereabouts.  I suppose it might be reasonable to assume she's with me, since we generally are together.  On any other day, I would have no hesitancy in answering him honestly, but to confirm his suspicions today—of all days—seems like I'm confirming too many of his suspicions.  And I know he's often wondered if there's more going on between Mac and I than just our squabbles at work.

"Ahh…I think she had a date, Admiral," I answer, once again patting myself on the back for not lying.  I meet Mac's eyes as I say this and watch her shift nervously. 

There's a moment of silence before he responds.  "Hmph.  Well, I suppose you can fill her in later.  There's been a new development in your case, and not a good one.  I think you'll want to see it for yourself.  And thank Webb for digging it up," he adds sourly.

Oh, christ.  He wants me to come in.  I stare hopelessly at Mac, who looks worriedly back.  

"Yes, sir.  I'll be in…right away, sir," I finish, saying the only thing I can say in this situation.

"All right, commander.  Maybe you can try reaching the colonel.  You might have better luck than I have."  He hangs up before I can respond.

Tossing the phone on the chair, I inform Mac of our change of plans.

"He thinks I'm on a date?"

"Yeah.  So you don't have to worry about coming in.  I'll go see what Webb has dug up.  With any luck, it won't take too long.  We may be able to salvage our evening."  Even as I'm saying this, I know it's shot.  Nothing with Webb is ever neat and tidy and 'won't take too long.'  I'm liable to be there half the night.

"With Webb involved?  Right.  You're liable to be there half the night."  I smile.  "And there's no way I'm going to let you go there by yourself—what if whatever Webb tells you sparks some damn fool idea that you should go investigate by yourself?"

"Mac—"

"Don't 'Mac' me."  She picks up her purse.  "I'll go home and change, and meet you at the office."

"Mac—"

"And you better not make a move without me, Harm.  I mean it."  She gives me her best marine glare.  She kind of ruins the desired effect when she pauses, on her way out the door, to give me a goodbye kiss.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Mac."

She gives me a 'yeah, right' look. 

Well, I only have her best intentions at heart.  "Mac!" I call, just as she disappears down the stairwell.

"Yeah?" 

"I told Chegwidden you were on a date."

"I know."

"Yeah, well, you might want to take your time coming in.  If you get there right after me, he might, you know, suspect something.  And I'm supposed to be trying to reach you."

She narrows her eyes at me, no doubt thinking I'm trying to ditch her so I can 'run off half-cocked on some damn fool idea.'  After a moment, she nods her head slowly.

"You'd better be there when I get there, commander, or God help you when--_if_--you return from wherever it is you just _had_ to go without me."

The tone of her voice reminds why I'm loathe to really piss her off. 

"Yes, ma'am."


	11. Chapter Eleven

0223 ZULU

JAG HQ

Falls Church, VA

"About time, Commander," the admiral barks irritably.  I feel my annoyance at him—and the world in general—increase.  I'm still irked about my interrupted evening with Mac, so excuse me if I didn't get the lead out to get here—but I'm here, and even without breaking any land speed records, I still made it in good time.  I can't say any of the retorts that bounce around in my head to the admiral, though. 

So, naturally, I take it out on Webb.

"Well, Webb, you sure go all out.  It wasn't enough that the information you gave us before nearly wiped out any hope of nailing Sorenson's ass to the wall."

"I'm surprised at you, Rabb.  I thought you enjoyed a challenge.  I find it hard to believe that JAG's poster boy can't convict this sleazebag."

"Well, you could make the job easier if you actually find some useful evidence, instead of just digging up more and more—"

"Commander!" The admiral interjects.  I fall silent as I turn my attention back to him.  He stares at me for a long moment, his brows knitted together in annoyance.  His upper lip curls as he considers what he wants to say next.  "Commander, I'm about as thrilled with this new development as you are, but let's give Mr. Webb a chance to explain."

I carefully take a calming breath.  "Yes, sir."  

"Good.  Continue, Mr. Webb," he directs, picking up his coffee mug and taking a long, slow sip.

"As I was about to say," Webb resumes haughtily, "I've found some—wait a minute.  Where's the colonel?  Shouldn't she be here for this?"  

Both he and the admiral look at me.  "Were you unable to reach Colonel Mackenzie, Commander?"

"Uh, no, sir, I wasn't able to reach her on her cell phone."  Well, I suppose it's true, considering I didn't even try.

"Is she avoiding your calls?" Webb asks, with the barest hint of a smile.

"No," I reply testily.  "She's on a date."

"I wasn't aware that she was seeing anyone."

"Well, obviously you're out of touch, Webb.  Maybe you'd better get some new sources to keep tabs on the colonel.  I'm sure she'll appreciate your 'big brother' concern," I remark sarcastically.  "I wasn't aware that it was any of your business who Mac dates."

"My source is you, Rabb.  It's been my experience you can generally tell when Mac's got a new love interest because you start acting like an ass."

I open my mouth to rebut, registering with indignation the snort of agreement that comes from the vicinity of the admiral's desk, while Webb smoothly continues.  

"However, the only thing I've noticed is that you've managed to keep a low profile—for you, at any rate—so one can only infer that you've been in good spirits lately—and, ergo, you and Mac have been getting along."

"'Ergo'?"

"So, what's this guy like?" Webb chugs on, without missing a beat.

"What do you mean 'what is he like'?"

"You haven't met him?"

"No."  Fear of being found out is taking away any hesitation about walking the fine line between honesty and dishonesty.  Right now, denial is everything.

"But you know she's on a date?"

"Yes." 

"She told you?"

"Yes."

"And you didn't ask questions?" Webb asks, clearly surprised.

"What would you have liked me to ask?" I retort.

"You don't know where he works, what he does for a living?  How they met?"

I need to change the subject.  Fast.  "What's with the third degree, Webb?  I thought we were here to discuss the wonderful development you've dug up."

"So you don't know anything at all about this guy?"

"No, geez, does it really matter?"

Both Webb and the admiral stare at me incredulously.

"Harm, this is Mac we're talking about here.  Whatever else she is, she's your partner and friend.  You're not the least bit concerned after everything she's been through with her ex-husband, and Detective Connors, and Brumby, and--well, let's face it, you--?

"Webb, Mac is a big girl.  And I respect her _privacy_," I emphasize, hoping he'll back off.  "And why are you so concerned about who she's seeing anyway.  It's a date.  One date.  It doesn't mean she's going to marry the guy."

I take a minute to regroup while Webb digests this.

"True," he concedes.  "I'm just concerned about her."

"We all are," the admiral agrees, "but the commander is right.  The colonel has the right to see anyone she chooses, and it's none of our business who she spends her afterhours with.  Although, if she starts seeing whoever the hell this guy is and he does something stupid and hurts her I can't guarantee I won't kick his ass from here to Norfolk and back."

Well, didn't I say that there would be people lining up to kick my six if I screw this thing up with Mac?  This declaration also reminds me why I'm loathe to piss off SEALs, too.  

I manage a weak laugh.  "I'm sure Mac won't spare him any considerations either, Admiral."

"Hmph."

"You could try to be a little more supportive though, Rabb," Webb pipes up.  

"Supportive?!"  What is this?  Have I done something recently that's set off the sensors?    

"Sorry, I'm late, sir," Mac interrupts before I can admit the truth of that to myself.  Her eyes flick cautiously over each occupant in the room, taking in the ever-present smirk on Webb and my equally ever-present (whenever Webb's around) annoyance, before settling on the admiral.  "Commander Rabb didn't get a hold of me until about twenty minutes ago."

The admiral fixes me with a suspicious stare.  "I thought you said you were unable to get a hold of the colonel, Commander."

"Uh, not on her cell phone, Admiral," I reply, recollecting what, exactly, I admitted to the admiral and thanking my quick memory.  Mac tries to cover her worry by twisting her hands over her purse.  I notice she's thrown a thick sweater on over her dress.  It's buttoned nearly all the way to the top.  I'm not certain, but I think she's also changed shoes.  They don't look nearly as high or uncomfortable as the ones before.

"Well, if you were able to get a hold of her, why didn't you just say so?" he grumbles.  He turns his attention to Mac, and his demeanor softens just noticeably.  "Evening, Colonel.  Sorry to ruin your date.  We have news."  He indicates Webb, who resumes his debriefing.  Mac flashes me a brief look of contrition before focusing on Webb.

By the time he's done explaining, Mac's look of sympathy and compassion (for me, of course) has faded away and the statement on her face surely reflects my own annoyance and irritation at our favorite spy.

"You really know how to make my life hell, Clay," Mac remarks sourly, crossing her arms over her chest.  "We're going to be here all night trying to sort this out!"

"Sorry about your date, Mac," Webb offers.

"'Sorry?'  'Sorry' doesn't cut it.  My evening is shot."

"Must be some guy," Webb comments casually.  His eyes flicker expressionlessly to mine.  

"Yes, well, duty is duty," she sighs resolutely.

"Let's just hope he understands that," the admiral remarks kindly.

"He does," she returns softly.

TBC


	12. Chapter Twelve

1556 ZULU 

JAG HQ

Falls Church, VA

Harm and I are hunched over in the law library, trying to discover some miraculous, hidden precedent that will really nail Sorenson's ass to the wall.  So far it's been a rather fruitless search.  He'll get some time, but not nearly enough.

A few piles comprising roughly two dozen books are in the middle of the table we're seated at, some open, others closed, with yellow post-its marking a page of interest.  We've been at this for two hours now.  Bud and Singer are busy preparing for their own courtroom battle, thus relegating Harm and I to do our own research.  

It's been kind of nice actually; just Harm and me, and occasionally Harriet or Tiner bustle in, with a note or a file, or a message.  I watch Harm flip through a law book, running his finger along a line on the page that he thinks might help our case, his profile rapt in concentration, the smooth line of his jaw firm, his brow pensive as he considers the words before him.  Then he turns his head, giving me another wonderful view of his shiny, black hair, the bangs styled slightly over his forehead, giving him a boyish appearance as he marks down some notes on his yellow legal pad with his silver pen.  He continues with his task, and I try to focus my attention on my share, but I am drawn to the windows.  I gasp in surprise as I see a very heavy blanket of snow covering the ground, with more fat flakes falling steadily.

Harm looks up, first at me, then follows my gaze to the windows.

"Wow.  The forecaster said we were in for some snow.  I guess it's here."

"Yeah," I reply softly.  Great.  It's looks like there's enough already to make the roads hell, and my slippery, fiberglass car was not made for snowshoeing.  As it is, it's just before noon, and it looks as though we have not even half of the predicted amount.

"I can give you a ride back to your place.  You shouldn't be driving your car in this weather," Harm offers, as though he can read my thoughts.  I wonder sometimes if he can.

"Thanks."

He smiles in answer and resumes his research.  I don't know how he can be so intent on work, when everything—well, with exception to the fact we're here at the office—is conspiring for a romantic day.  The snow.  He and I.  Alone together.  With romance on the horizon.  I sigh melodramatically.

"Suck it up, Marine," he responds immediately, eyes still on the page. 

"What?"

"You know what," he replies smiling as he scribbles more notes.

"What?" I insist.

"I know you're wishing you were home alone with me, snuggled together on the couch under a nice warm blanket, watching _Steel Magnolias_ or some other sappy love story, but face it—we have work to do."  This is said in a drone, as though he's reciting some age-old fact about me.

"Excuse me?!  First of all, _Steel Magnolias_ isn't a 'sappy love story'; it's a very moving drama, I'll have you know." He snorts.  "And secondly, you just assume—arrogantly—I might add that I have spent the last twenty minutes wishing I was home alone with you!"

"'Arrogantly,' but not 'erroneously.'"

True.  I bite the inside of my cheek in an effort to hide my smile.  "You're the one who brought it up.  Something tells me that it's more your dream scenario than mine."

"No, in mine you would be wearing that nice little lacy black number you were wearing last week…or maybe that one you wore when we were in Russia."

I knew he'd like those.  Money well spent, MacKenzie.

"Really, Harm.  You don't know me at all.  You actually think _you'd_ be wearing anything underneath that blanket?"

I swear he blushes as he checks to see if I'm serious.  I'm half-serious.  He quickly resumes his task, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"Maaaac," he drawls warningly, but he doesn't make any further comment.

"Yes?" I prompt innocently.

"We're working."

"Suck it up, Sailor," I retort sweetly.

"Unfair, Marine.  Unfair."

I roll my eyes.  I slip off my pumps and rub my heels.  My shoes are new and they pinch a bit.  An idea forms in my mind and I smile slyly as I stretch my legs out under the table and place them in Harm's lap.  He looks down at them in surprise.  He looks up at me.

"Yes?"

I smile benignly as I wiggle my toes.  He tosses his pen onto the table and leans back to look at me and my feet.  He's slow to respond with the foot massage I want, so I rub my foot suggestively along his thigh.  He shoots of his chair so fast it tips over. 

Damn, he's so much fun to tease.

He rights the chair, and starts stuttering some excuse about an idea he's going to check on, and quickly escapes to a stack at the back of the room.

You can run, but you can't hide.

I stand up and follow, padding along in my stocking feet.  His back is to me as I approach, and he appears to be engaging in some Lamaze, or yoga breathing techniques.

"Find what you were looking for?" I purr, slipping my arms around his waist, and laying my head against his back.  We're well hidden back here, there are no blinds open to the prying eyes of the bullpen, and I feel like a little fun with my favorite flyboy.  Harm must realize the advantage of our position here, too, because he spins around and plants a solid kiss on my lips.

"As a matter of fact, I did," he grins triumphantly.

Hmm…I think I may have just been played by my favorite flyboy.  He can't win in the seduction game though.  I already know he has very weak defenses when it comes to my persuasions.

I consider the consequences of entertaining the fantasy of making it here in the law library with Harm.  I always imagined it would be on one of the study tables, but back here, between the rows of books could be nice, too.  Cozy.  Really, with so many people still at headquarters neither is a viable option.

If the look in Harm's eyes is any indication, I don't think he'd be all that adverse to either notion right now, and it's almost enough incentive to knock him to the floor and start having my way with him.  He bends down a little and pulls me back onto my toes as he captures my lips again.  I love tall men.  I let out a throaty moan as we deepen our kiss, both of our tongues jockeying for position with the other.  After a moment in each other's arms, I realize that we are slinking slowly to our knees.  Harm's reach the floor first, and he pulls me onto his lap, without ever breaking contact with my mouth.  This is shamelessly irresponsible and I'm sure I'll care if—when—we get caught, but right now, consequences be damned.

The sound of the door slamming echoes like a gunshot and we break apart as if stung.  We're both panting heavily, and I realize that if anyone's going to rescue us from certain disciplinary action it's me.  Harm won't be able to argue anything without giving us away.

I stand and quickly smooth my skirt and suit jacket, and run a hand through my hair.  I borrow some of Harm's Lamaze/yoga techniques in an effort to regulate my breathing.  I run my fingers through Harm's hair and bend down to place a kiss on his head.  Harm nods in understanding as he tries to regain his composure.  I hurry to head off whoever interrupted our nice little foray behind the stacks.  Please not the Admiral.  Please not the Admiral.

"Ma'am?  Sir?"

Oh, thank God.  Harriet.  

It's then I realize I left my shoes under the table.  Shit.  Oh, well.  She's a woman.  She would understand.  Hopefully I can keep her from drawing conclusions about Harm and I.  I shake my head at all those agreements Harm and I came to about keeping things quiet and taking things slow.

Why do we kid ourselves?  We've taken things slow enough, I would think after six years together.  

I've just about got my panting under wraps, but my face still feels very warm and I'm sure it's flushed.  I wonder how I'll be able to explain that away.  It's too much to hope Harriet won't notice a detail like that.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"  Keep things cool.  Distant.  Professional.

"I found the phone number for Adam Jansen."

"Really?" I ask, some actual interest in the case surfacing.  

"Yes, ma'am.  He has an address near Dam Neck."  She hands me the slip of paper.  

"Excellent work, Harriet!" I exclaim.  This is just the break Harm and I need.  I ponder this new information while Harriet takes the opportunity to comment on my missing shoes.

"Oh, I, um, took them off.  They were pinching my feet."  Not a lie.  Harriet nods sympathetically.

"New?"

"Yeah.  Well, thank you, Harriet," I say, hoping I can dismiss her before she notices Harm's absence.

"Is the Commander still working with you ma'am?"

"Uh, yes, yes.  He made a visit to the head, I believe."

She nods.  "Well, can you tell him when he gets back that Bud has a question about his case, if the Commander doesn't mind helping him."

"Sure, sure.  I'll tell him.  I'm sure the Commander won't mind."

"Thank you, ma'am."  I nod distractedly.  She gives me another funny look and opens her mouth to comment—most assuredly on my flushed appearance.

"That will be all Lieutenant.  Dismissed."

Her mouth snaps closed and she clicks her heels together.  "Aye-aye, ma'am."

My breath lets out in a whoosh as I sigh in relief once Harriet exits.  I turn around and make my way back to Harm.  


	13. Chapter Thirteen

I find him perched on a stepstool, his head in his hands.  I rest my hand against the back of his neck and kneel down beside him, my arm draped across his shoulder.  "Hey," I whisper softly.  I plant a gentle kiss on his cheek.

"That was close," he murmurs, not looking at me.  In more ways than one.  I nod in agreement.

"We're going to have to lay out some ground rules, Sarah," he continues.  I'm pretty sure I know what's coming.  It's not my office fantasy becoming a reality.  "Especially if we're—if we're going to work together and be a couple."

"I know," I whisper.  Even as I'm saying this, I'm trailing kisses along his profile.  I'm not ready to hear "no" just yet, so I turn his chin to me so I can capture his lips once more.  He gives in easily, as though he too isn't ready to set up boundaries between us and this new thing we share.  I run my hand along his back, as his own hand slides along my thigh, just under the hem of my skirt.  No, I'm not ready for boundaries, practical as they may be.

He groans my name—Sarah, not Mac—before he pulls away and cups my face.  "We have to behave," he says."

"I know."  He's right.  We've both come too far along in our careers to be caught engaging in an embarrassing act at work.  I have no intention of sending my career down the toilet, not after how hard I worked to make it—and not after that debacle with my ex-husband and the article 32.  And Harm, I don't want Harm's career tarnished, either.  He's had a wonderful, successful career, and we'll both need a steady income if we plan on fulfilling our baby deal.  We're just going to both have to suck it up and act like adults.  Responsible adults.

It's just so damn hard with both our hormones raging and our emotions running high, and that "us" that we've always longed to be finally within our reach.  We can explore that at home though.  We can.

**********

I'm still trying to catch my breath and get myself under control as we both consider our words and actions.  If this was any other place or time, I'd bar the door and lose my senses in Sarah, though I did I have a more romantic location than the JAG law library in mind for such an event.  I kind of wanted that to be special, and while the library certainly is somewhat unique, that's not the kind of special I was looking for.

I stare into Sarah's chocolate eyes, brushing my thumb lightly across her cheekbone.  She's still flushed from our earlier…encounter, and despite her efforts, still somewhat mussed in appearance.  It's a look I can definitely get used to and I definitely want to see again.  We stare out each other for a few seconds longer.

"I'll try to behave," she says solemnly.

"I promise to try and behave, too," I return, just as serious.  "Try" seems about as much as we can promise at this point.

Somehow after that declaration, we're in each other's arms again, mouths fused tightly together.  Perhaps we're just sealing our deal with a kiss, I reason.  

"Mac—"

"Just five more minutes," she pleads, cutting me off.

I chuckle, thinking if I even allowed her two we would be in serious trouble.  I can just see the admiral towering furiously over us after finding us in a compromising position here in Maritime Law, volumes 26-124, stacks J and K.  Still, it might be worth the risk.

"One minute."

She gives me a small pout, accentuated by her swollen lips.

"Four."

"Three."

"Three," I hear her agree, as we once again lock lips.  Ohhh…you're going to have to utilize that famed aviator control Rabb, or you will most certainly crash and burn.

Mac's becoming quite well aware, however, that when it comes to her, I really have no control.  

Not anymore.

**********

I'm seated at my desk, overlooking some briefs, while Bud paces back and forth in the small expanse of my office.  Occasionally I mutter to myself, which halts the hurried pace of his circles, for a moment, as he tries to decipher and digest what I've said.  Providing legal counsel has suitably cooled my raging hormones, and has almost made me forget the encounter in the library.  

Almost.

This review of Bud's case wouldn't take half as long if I could keep my mind focused on it, and not on the feel of Mac in my arms, her lips, hot and demanding, on mine.  Cripes, I'm never going to make it today if I keep dwelling on that.  

This is precisely what I worried about whenever I thought of a relationship with Mac.  The separation of work from us, which, admittedly the lines have always been kind of blurred, but if we're going to function together, and not too mention not draw the attention of the Admiral et al. we'd better get our act together.  

Not that I'd change anything about my current relationship with Mac.  And miss out on opportunities and experiences like that in the library?  Hell no.  My mother didn't raise no fool, as they say.

Hell, my mother has no idea about what's really been going on with Mac and I lately.  I'm sure she wouldn't be all that surprised though.  She just found out about Renee marrying that mortician guy.  Naturally, after I disclosed that little fun fact she asked about Mac, which prompted me to have to explain about Mic no longer being in the picture.  When mom visited me in the hospital, it was still assumed the wedding would be rescheduled.  After mom figured out that we were both available (which was damn fast), I heard quite an earful in subtle and not-so-subtle hints that this was opportunity not to be wasted.  

Tell me something I don't already know.

I've studiously avoided talking to my mother since.  Not too hard to do with my work schedule.  And caller ID and an answering machine.  

"Sir?"

I stare blankly at Bud.  When did he come into my off—oh, right.

I clear my throat, and resume my perusal of the briefs.

"Sorry, Bud…what were you wanting to know about specifically?"

"Uhh, never mind sir, I think I've got it figured out."

"Are you sure, Lieutenant, because I can make some sug—"

"No, thank you, sir, I've got them."  He takes the briefs from me and gives me a small smile and exits my office.

Just as well.  I think some actual intelligent suggestions would have required more thought than I'm capable of today.  I look out my windows and see that the snow is still falling steadily, adding to the inches already blanketing everything.  We must have eight inches already, and there doesn't seem to be an end in sight.  I have to drive Mac home in this.  Maybe we'll get snowed in, and be forced to spend the day together.  _Steel Magnolias_ (notwithstanding) coupled with Mac and a nice cup of mint hot chocolate is rather appealing. 

Here's hoping.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

1145 ZULU (0645 EST)

HARM'S APT

NORTH OF UNION STATION

I get my wish.  I'm snowed in with Harm at his place.  All those accurate newscasters failed to predict an extra six inches, so instead of eight, we now have fourteen.  The capitol is shut down.  Power's out over most of the area, including JAG HQ and Harm's apartment.  I'm perched on a barstool in Harm's USNA sweatshirt and sweatpants, rolled down at the waist, eating breakfast.  Harm's still snoozing on the couch, his bed for the night at his insistence.  Every once in a while, he emits a light snore.  Every once in a while, I emit a not-so-light shiver.  Why does his place always have to be so cold?  (Nevermind, MacKenzie, that the 'no power' factor might be playing a large role.)

I debate returning to bed, but even with the extra blankets Harm threw on for me, it's not as warm as the prospect of snuggling up in Harm's arms.  I can still feel the chill in the air, on my exposed face and hands, and I wonder how it doesn't bother Harm.

I also wonder what we're going to do today.  Perhaps, later on, after the road crews salt and clear the streets, we might be able to get to my apartment, but how to keep busy during the interim is a little less clear.  Well, I mean, yeah, I do have a _few_ ideas floating around, but we really should not just leap into bed together.  

Sigh.

What to do, what to do.

I've always enjoyed watching Harm sleep.  He quite possibly looks in slumber right now the most at peace I've ever seen him, with exception to when we were in Russia that first time. 

He also sleeps like the dead, judging by the amount of noise he's already slept through this morning.

My lips curl in a smile as I think of something that might rouse him from his slumber.

…Well, I've got nothing better to do right now…

**********

There's something warm and pleasant pressing lightly against my lips, and I feel my mouth stretch into a smile when I think what could be the source of that wonderful feeling.  I dig my head a little deeper into my pillow and enjoy the dream I'm having.  I've had this dream before, and it only gets better.  The cool air surrounding me is telling me it's much too chilly to get up right now anyway.  I stretch my legs and bump them into the arm of the couch.

The couch?

The pressure against my mouth has returned, firmer, more insistent.  I let out a contented groan, and the pleasantness ceases.  My eyelids peel open of their own volition as I come face to face with a grinning Mac.

"Good morning, Sleeping Beauty," she teases.  I smile sheepishly and close my eyes again.  Maybe I can get back to that dream again.

"Come on," she shakes me.  "You've got to help me decide what to do with our Winter Wonderland."

"Sleep in," I offer drowsily.  

"Come on, Harm," she shakes me again.  If she thinks I'm getting up at…at this hour, whatever hour it is, she's going to be one disappointed Marine.

"Sleep," I mutter, hoping she'll take the hint, and at least stop shaking me.  I get my wish.  I hear her sigh and move away from me.  Ahh…peace.  I shift onto my side, facing the back of the couch.  It's warmer on this side anyway.

I'm just about asleep again, when Mac flops onto the couch…or more precisely my legs, which are on the couch, and thus covering her intended cushion.  Really, she's like a kid.  I fight a battle against returning the look I can feel her giving me.  I fight and lose.  One eye pops open and I stare at the leather that covers the couch before I allow my vision to seek out the reason for the slowed circulation in my feet and calves.

"What time is it?"  I mutter darkly.

"Time to get up." She answers cheekily.  I hate morning people.  Something tugs at the neuron cord in the back of my mind as it occurs to me that when I marry Mac this cheery morning persona will no doubt be an everyday occurrence.  I sigh in defeat.

"Come on, flyboy," she coaxes.  She crawls over me to squeeze the upper half of her body between the couch and me.  She touches her lips to my temple and works her way to my lips.  What was I saying about morning people?  I could grow to love this if this is how Mac intends on waking me every morning.

But we're not married, or living together, or even sleeping together, so the chances of this being an everyday occurrence are slim, until we meet at least one of those criteria.  

"Vertical, squid, vertical."  I mutter something incoherent even to me.  If she wants me up, she's going to have to at least humor me a bit more.  She does and our kiss gets a bit more involved, so much so that I wrap my arms around her and roll over.

…And roll Mac, and nearly myself, off the couch.  I forgot we were still lying on it.  Mac takes half my blankets with her, and I am accosted by the cold in my apartment.  

Sheesh-a-my.  Boxers don't offer the warmth they used to.  Time to turn the heat up.  

Mac attempts to disengage herself from the tangled heap of sheets and blankets while I spring off the couch and head to the thermostat to crank it up.  I don't hear the heat kick on.  I flip the switch back and forth a few times, before registering the fact that nothing—namely my fridge—is humming with electricity.  

"Power's out."  I announce.  Mac rolls her eyes and sighs heavily.  "What?  I'm up."

She throws my pillow at me.  I light the gas heater in the living area, and escape to my dark shower, laughing all the way.

**********

That man can be so brilliant sometimes, and others…well, I guess that little personality quirk is what makes Harm Harm.  Or maybe what makes Harm a typical guy.

I throw his bedding back onto the couch, keeping one particularly soft, heavy blanket to throw around my shoulders.  The small breeze from the action upsets some papers on Harm's coffee table, and I go about rounding them up, listening absently to the running water of the shower (and trying not to succumb to the temptation to see just how good is the view through those glass room dividers and those clear, but distorted, glass blocks that form his shower).  My hands struggle to reach for the smaller slips of paper while trying to maintain my cocoon of warmth around my body.  Finally, after some rather precarious balancing on my right knee, I grasp the final piece of paper, and recognize the painstakingly printed handwriting of one Harmon Rabb, Jr.

It's one of his clues from the 'game' we were playing the other day—Valentine's Day—before work came up, and ended our fun.  I smile, thinking of our much-abbreviated romantic evening.  If I solve this little puzzle, I earn my redemption from the roses I sent him at the office.  But I never had the opportunity (or the inclination, really, once we started making out) to finish the riddle that night, and as I am not about to let a game created by Harmon Rabb defeat me, I set about solving it now.

Hmm…there are seven clues so far—twelve in all.  The most I have been able to weasel out of Harm is that the clues are song lyrics, and the title of each song (which I have to figure out from the lyrics) meshes together to form one big message.  I quickly lay my seven slips of paper along the edge of the coffee table and study each one.

I didn't realize that Harm had such a vast library of music—or, perhaps, that I have such a vast deficit of music—in his brain.  A few of the clues are pretty simple, but the degree of difficulty has steadily increased with the more clues gained.

Dammit.  I _will_ solve this mystery.  Come on, MacKenzie.  You used to be one hell of an investigator.

Wait a minute.  What am I saying?  I still _am_ one hell of an investigator.

Okay.  Focus, marine.  First clue.

_You must remember this, a kiss is just a kiss_…

Easy one.  "As Time Goes By" by Frank Sinatra.  There will be no pulling _Casablanca_ over me.

Next.

_I feel it in my fingers.  I feel it in my toes._

Again, not too hard, thanks to that Gap commercial, and my own knowledge of some sixties music.  "Love is all Around" by the Troggs.

So.  So far, I have "As Time Goes by love is all around…" hmm…Is my flyboy waxing poetic?  Hard to tell because I get stumped on the third clue.

Take your high class show and tell.  Don't need no modern day Jezebel.  All I want, ain't no lie.  Check it out, Leroy, that means 'bye'."

I have no idea what song this is from.  I sigh, and move on to the next clue, hoping I can reason it out from there.  

That's a dead end, because the lyrics listed there--_First love, heartbreak, tough luck, big mistake, what else can we do?  I'll say anything you want to hear.  I'll see everything through.  I'll do anything I have to do, just to win the love of…_

Hmmm…

Well, I know the fifth clue for sure.  _Wait a minute, baby.  Stay with me awhile…_  I don't even have to read the rest.  "Sara."  I know my Fleetwood Mac, too.  

It's also the point in this little game where I become REALLY interested in figuring out the rest of this puzzle.  The use of my given name in this greater message could mean something.  Perhaps my flyboy isn't just waxing poetic, but prophetic, as well.  Or maybe I'm just a little too frenetic about the whole thing.

Something swiftly darts down to my side, and I realize with a jolt Harm has finished his shower.  He plants a kiss on my cheek, and straightens.  "Morning, beautiful."  

He smells incredible.  

Brut.  Damn, I missed him shaving.

I glance up and take in his appearance, noting the boring U.S. NAVY sweats and the wet, glossy, black hair sticking up in all directions.  Noticing my amused scrutiny, Harm quickly runs a hand over his head, flattening, momentarily, a few of the tufts before they drift out again.

"Hey, handsome," I reply easily.  

I'm rewarded with a flash of that perfect smile of white teeth.  

"Are you warm enough in that?"  He points to my attire, which I borrowed from him for the night.  He doesn't know it yet, but I've staked my claim on his USNA sweatshirt.  The second I can sneak it back home with me…besides, I never see him wear it.

"Yeah.  It's not too bad.  Just my hands—"

He grabs one and, before I can finish my sentence, begins to rub it gently between his, generating a few welcome sparks of heat in it.

"—are cold.  Thanks, Harm."  Another flash of the famous flyboy grin.  Damn.  I'm not sure if my heart needs to be pumping this fast this early in the morning.  I've only had two cups of coffee yet.

After about thirty-four seconds (but who's counting?), he reaches for the other hand.  Forty-two seconds after that, he relinquishes contact, and takes a seat on the couch, patting his hair down once again.  This time, however, it bounces back into disarray almost immediately.  Unable to keep my hands to myself, I reach for his head, and begin to smooth down, as best I can, the derelict strands of hair.  

"I don't think there's much you can do," Harm says after a moment, and I'm sure that, despite his usual protests regarding mothering—and I'm sure on most days, this is what it falls into--he's enjoying all the attention immensely.  

"No," I agree after a pause, a few more seconds of running his hair through my fingers greedily taken.  "Maybe if you have some gel or mousse, or something."

"I've got some," he answers, "I'll put it on in a moment.  What have you got here?"  He indicates the clues.

"Your little puzzle," I reply, shifting away, knowing instinctively that Harmon Rabb is going to get all cocky and self-assured, and looking forward to the flirting opportunity that will undoubtedly arise as a result.

"Ahh, still haven't figured it out," he says smugly.  

"I didn't really get the opportunity," I shoot back, "as someone just couldn't keep his hands off me."

"I don't recall it being that way at all, marine."

"Oh really?"

"I seem to recall a certain sassy marine got it in her head to take advantage of me."

I let out an unladylike snort.  "That's not how I remember it."

"Well, obviously, your memory's off, Mac."

"Ha, Ha.  Can you even remember what prompted this advantageous behavior?"  I turn to look at him.  

"You found me utterly irresistible?"  He flashes me another handsome grin.  Wow.  Three in not even a half-hour.

"Hardly."  I bite back a smile at his crestfallen expression.  "It was the other way around.  You claimed you could grow a spine in the face of my 'persuasions,'"  I taunt.  "Unfortunately, you once again underestimated your opponent…and overestimated your own pathetic defenses."

"'Pathetic'?"  The green eyes harden at the unspoken challenge.

I turn back to my notes, nodding.

"Really, Harm, is that the best that the Navy can do?"

"May I remind you that it was _you_ who jumped _my_ bones on our date."

I let out a squawk of protest.

"What?"

"Yeah, on our first date."  He sees me smile in remembrance and shakes his head vigorously.  "Uh-huh.  See."

"I am a marine, Harm.  We are take-charge, storm-the-beach kind of people." 

"Riiiight.   Must have just been more of your Mata Hari instincts shining through," he offers with a wicked smile.  I smack him on the arm.  

"Keep that up, and my 'Mata Hari instincts' will be **_ex_**tinct."   

"We wouldn't want that."

"I didn't think so.  Now, do you mind?  I'm trying to concentrate here."  I indicate my clues.

"Well, by all means, don't let me bother you."  He lies back on his side, with a triumphant grin, and props his head up on his elbow.  "So," he begins quite innocently, "what have you figured out so far?"

Not a whole hell of a lot.  "I've managed to figure out several of the clues."

"Mm-hmm.  Need help?"

Yes.  "No."

"Okay…well, let me know if you get stuck.  A couple of those are kind of hard."  No kidding.  "I'm not sure if you would know them.  I tried to keep to the more mainstream songs throughout the years.  I can be persuaded to give you some clues…if the price is right."  He brushes his lips over my ear and I shiver in delight.  

"How many years are we talking?"

He thinks for a while.  "Well, 'As Time Goes By' is what…the forties?  There's one from the fifties, I think.  One from the sixties.  Several from the seventies.  Several from the eighties, too.  I think that's it."

"Sooo…nothing recent?"

"Nope."

Damn.

"Stuff I grew up on and that I remember from my flying days."

Great.

"Harm," I begin very sweetly, turning to focus my entire attention on his handsome face, even with the supercilious grin, "can you give me a hint on this one?"  I point to the _I'll say anything you want to hear_ clue.  He grins even wider.

"Well…" 

"Please?"

"I'll think about it, Mac."  

He stands up and places a quick kiss on my head.  I wait until he clears the coffee table before I nail him.  His legs go out from under him (do to the fact I have hold of his ankles) and he crashes to the floor with a loud thud.  I hold my breath, hoping I haven't got too carried away and inadvertently injured him.  After a moment, he turns his head to me with a look of incredulity, which only increases when he sees that my hands are still about his feet.

I flash him my most becoming smile.

"Could you think a little faster, sailor?"

TBC


	15. Chapter Fifteen

1258 ZULU (0758 EST)

HARM'S APT

NORTH OF UNION STATION

"You can go ahead and use the shower, marine.  It's kind of dark, but…well, just think of it as conserving energy," I tell Mac, thinking if only I had thought to extend an invitation, we could've conserved some water this morning, too.  We're both breathless and a little sweaty after our little wrestling match on the floor.

Tripping me up was, of course, an act of war.  

I'm not quite sure if a battle was ever conducted quite like ours, but the kissing and making out certainly didn't lessen the fun.  She's got quite a few moves.  Of course, this aviator can still pull a few G's easily, too.

"You gonna give me a hint on the next clue?" she asks, panting.

"What do you mean?  I just gave you a couple of hints."  I finally make it to my knees.  It takes a little more effort than I'd rather dwell on right now.

"Those were hints?" she huffs.  Literally.  

"Well, what would you call them?"  

"Not hints."

"You want a hint?"

"A real one, yeah," she breathes shortly, still gasping for air.

"Convince me."

She ponders me for just a few seconds.  "You're on."  Then she launches herself at me.  This time I'm prepared for her, and we both go down on the floor in a relatively organized heap.

"Have you been outside today, Big Brother?"  The door to my apartment slams shut, causing Mac and I to jerk upright collectively—she gripping tightly to my sweatshirt, and me clasped tightly around her waist.

Oh, shit.  Sergei.  I forgot about him.  I twist around to see where he is in reference to his view of us, but I have no idea why I do so.  There aren't too many places to hide in my apartment.  He walks right on past us, leaving little trails of snow along the apartment, the refrigerator his intended goal.  

Good.  Maybe Mac and I have the—

"What have we here?" he drawls, stopping mid-stride when, I guess, he finally notices us.  He says something I don't catch in Russian, but apparently Mac does because she turns one of her becoming shades of red. 

"Nothing," I reply, attempting to get a handle on this situation.

"It doesn't look like nothing."  Sergei leans up against the fridge and regards us gleefully.  

"Well, whatever it looks like, it's nothing."

"Your face is red, Big Brother."

"Yes, thank you, Sergei.  I just—" I stop unable to think of a plausible reason why my face could be flushed.

"I can leave if you like," he continues easily, reveling in my discomfort.

"No, that's quite all right, Ser—hey, where have you been?" I ask, the fact he was gone all night finally hitting me.  

"I stayed with a friend.  The weather was too poor to get back."

"Did you walk back to Harm's apartment?" Mac interjects.  Apparently trying to save face, she, as nonchalantly as possible, lets go of my shirt and smoothes back her ruffled hair.  I follow her gaze to Sergei.  It's then I notice the deep red flush of Sergei's own face.  

"You walked back?"  He nods.

"Only from the station to your apartment.  It was not bad."

"That's twelve blocks!"

"In this weather?  It was nothing.  You Americans do not know what snow is until you have survived a Siberian winter."

I release Mac and stand up.  "You must be freezing."

"No, not really.  It is not that cold outside.  Why are there no lights?"  Then he looks from Mac and I as though he suddenly gets it.

"Power's out," I say pointedly, knowing exactly what he's thinking.

"Ahh.  You sure you don't want me to leave?"

"No, no.  Harm and I were just wondering what we'd do today.  The more the merrier," Mac says before I get a chance to reply, not that I was going to kick my little brother out into a snowstorm, but it sounds a bit…incriminating…Mac's way.

"Are you sure?  Is not three a crowd?"  He asks innocently, but I know better.  I shoot him a warning look.  He grins unrepentantly back.  Then he proceeds to delve into a conversation, conducted entirely in Russian, with Mac.  Having Sergei live with me these past few weeks has not brought my Conversational Russian up to par with Mac's.

I sigh and start to straighten up the apartment, finding the broom and dustpan, and eradicate all snow trails from my floor.  I hear Mac chuckle several times as Sergei spins some amusing tale.  After catching the word for brother, I realize it's about me.  Christ, I hope he doesn't reveal anything too embarrassing.  Or too personal.  There's not a whole lot he knows about my past escapades, but he has heard some, and quite a few that Mac has no knowledge of.  

He also has a pretty good idea as to the seriousness of my feelings towards Mac.

Fortunately, Mac excuses herself to the shower, before he really gets going.  At least I think it's before he really gets going.  Again, my Russian is not what it could be.

"So, little brother, what did you do last night?"

"Probably not the same thing as you, big brother."  He grins widely at his joke.  Thank god Mac didn't hear it.

"Nothing happened, Sergei," I say firmly.

"It did not look like nothing when I came in."

"Are we going to have this conversation again?"  I put away the broom.

"I am serious.  What is going on between you and Colonel MacKenzie?"

My lips twitch as I ponder what to say.  "We've…decided to see each other—"

"Finally!  I had thought you had taken leave of your senses, Big Brother, when you said you were just friends.  It is obvious the way you feel for each other."

Why does everybody say that?  Or some variation of that.

"Yes, well, nobody except you knows we're involved now."

"Why?"

"Well, we've only been seeing each other—dating—for just over a week.  I—we—it's just easier without everybody breathing down our necks, right now.  So we're keeping it quiet."

"I will not tell a soul.  Not even the lovely Lieutenant Singer, no matter how nice she asks," he eyes take on a dreamy look.  Dear god, I thought I took care of that notion.

"You'd be best to stay as far away from Lieutenant Singer as possible, little brother.  She only wants one thing.  And it's not you—it's what useful information she can get from you."

"I will tell no one.  You have my word."

I nod in acceptance.  "Come on, you have to help me figure out what to do with Mac today."

"It did not look like you needed my help earlier."  He laughs at my expression.  "Sorry to rain on your march, Big Brother."

"It's parade, and cool it with the innuendo."

"Innu--?" His brow furrows inquisitively.

"I'm back!  Did you guys miss me?"  Mac asks, sweeping into the room in a burst of steam-showered exuberance.  I notice she's still wearing my USNA shirt, but she swiped a pair of black sweats.  As she dances by I catch a whiff of my soap and shampoo, the masculine scent not unpleasant, but not as intoxicating (for obvious reasons) as her own toiletries.

Sergei smiles in greeting, and says something to Mac in Russian.  Her eyes flicker to me before she replies, a pretty blush staining her freshly scrubbed cheeks.  

I gently kick Sergei as I walk by to collect my blankets from the couch.  He smiles his innocent smile and takes a seat next to Mac.

"So, gentleman," she announces brightly, "what are we going to do today?"

**********

The day actually went by rather quickly between the three of us and no TV, radio, or electricity (which was finally up by late afternoon).  Trivial Pursuit by candlelight was rather nice, as was monopoly—two games I haven't played in years.  Mac and Sergei kept themselves entertained trading stories about me—most of them ones I really preferred that either party not know.  Sergei and I managed to round up some food.  Mac and I managed to act like adults and not paw at each other like lustful teenagers.  That took quite an effort of will, I'm chagrined to say.  God, I wanted to touch her.  

Still do.  

"So, who will sleep where?"  Sergei enquires, and for once his innocence is sincere.  

"Well, you and I…" I trail off realizing that if he and I share the bed then Mac will have to sleep on the couch.  After spending the night there, I can attest that it is neither really warm, nor comfortable.

"Oh, don't worry about me, Sergei."  Mac waves a dismissive hand.  "You—"

"Mac, I am not letting you sleep on the couch," I cut in.

"I'm not going to."

"Well, where are you going to sleep?"  She better not say the floor.  If she thinks I'm going to let her sleep _there_ she's sorely underestimated this sailor.  However, she does have a good idea.  I can just set up camp on the floor.

"The bed."  As if to emphasize her point, she marches over to it and pulls down the covers and slips in.  On my side.  She casts an inviting smile my way.

I cast a bemused glance at Sergei.  He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, attempting to hide that infuriating smirk.  

"Coming Harm?" Mac calls.

Hell, yes.

"Mac, are you sure about this?" I ask, wondering where that came from.

"We've slept together before, Harm."  Sergei's eyebrows shoot skyward.

Not like this.

I must have said that out loud because she asks, "Like what?"

I open my mouth to answer but think better of it.  "Never mind," I say instead.

"Well, then come to bed, Harm."

Yes, Harm, come to bed.

"Let me get the lights…and…everything."  Moments later I'm sitting in bed trying my damnedest to concentrate on yesterday's paper while my beautiful pajama-clad partner (and girlfriend now, I suppose) squirms restlessly beside me, causing the bed to rock like a ship in rough seas.

"Problems?"  I ask after another five minutes of roiling around.

"Can't sleep."  She sits up a little.  "Don't you have a TV?"

"No, you know I don't."

"You need a TV."

"Why?  Between court and away investigations I'm barely here long enough to keep up with the newspapers."  I indicate my present one.  "Besides, I find a good book is a great—"

"If you had a TV we could watch Letterman every night in bed.  And old movies."

"—I'll see about picking one up payday," I finish.  Forget the book.  Hell, if she intends to join me here nightly, the _least_ I can do is be accommodating.

She snuggles up close to me, laying her head on my shoulder, skimming the headlines of the "World News" section.  After a moment she sighs.

"What books do you have?"

********

"Are you still reading that thing?" Harm asks rolling from his right to his left side to face me—and the clock.  He squints at it in the dim light.  "It's 0325."

"Mm-hmm," I reply distractedly.

"How much longer are you going to be reading that thing?" He asks groggily.

"Don't know.  Can't sleep, and things just got really interesting.  This is a great book, Harm.  Have you read it?"  A slight shake of his head is his only reply.  Well, that, and a long sigh.  "Well, there's this counter intelligence agent.  She and this other guy—a captain in the—"

Harm reaches out and plucks the novel out of my hands and tosses it over by the closet.  I lie there stunned.  

"Now what am I supposed to do?"  It's far too cold to slip out and retrieve it.

Harm leans over me to touch the lamp.  He taps it once and we are blanketed in darkness.  

"Sleep," he murmurs, pausing to give me a kiss.  If he expects me to forgive him for interrupting me in a _really_ good part, he's going to have to do better than that.  I slip my arms around him and pull him to me.

He doesn't disappoint.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

1349 ZULU (0849 EST, Monday)

JAG HQ

FALLS CHURCH, VA

I tap my pencil on my legal pad, attempting to pen a few notes on the Sorenson matter while simultaneously passing the time before staff call.  Oh, and trying to keep my head on work and not on Mac, but, as it's not working very well, I decided not to include it in my list of accomplishments this morning.

Admitting defeat, I sigh, and toss my pen and pad onto my desk and lean back in my chair.  I mull over the events of this past weekend, the most prominent of which, was the pajama party at Hotel Rabb.  If it hadn't been for Sergei…

If it hadn't been for Sergei sleeping on the couch I think Bud and Harriet could exact revenge on Mac and I in regards to hotbunking.  However, if it hadn't been for Sergei sleeping on the couch, Mac and I wouldn't even be sharing a bed.  I'd most likely still be camping out on the sofa, and she'd have the bed to herself.  Hmm…maybe I should thank Sergei for the opportunity he provided.  At any rate, Sergei's presence was the only thing that stopped us.  Things got pretty hot and heavy, and suffice to say, I'm even more determined now for Mac and I to have some time to ourselves.  

Far, far away from any and all interruptions.

Every damn time we've been alone together we've been interrupted.  The admiral, Sergei…we've also been at my apartment both times.  Maybe we should try hers.  

Hmm…should we plan a weekend maybe?  Get away?  Are we ready for that?

Arrgghh.  Why does everything have to so difficult and complicated with us?  _You make simple things complicated_ a voice resonates in the back of my mind.  She's right.  What is so perplexing about going away for a weekend?

Are we ready for that though?

Mac means a lot to me.  I don't want to mess things up with her just because my hormones are driving me along.  Ugh.  There is such a thing as over-thinking, Rabb, and I think you're delving into that sphere now.  Just go with the flow.  And besides, if you want to get from Point A to Point B, you have to put the car in drive, Rabb.  And I want to get to Point B.  

I'll just ask her what she wants to do this weekend.  Maybe she has a few ideas.  Maybe she wants to see a movie, or go to dinner, walk Jingo, or do her laundry or something.

Maybe she wants to carpool to Point B.

Gunny raps on my closed door and points to something towards the confer—

Crap.  I'm late for staff call.

**********

There's a bounce in Harm's step and a brightness in his eyes that are privy only to a unique circumstance—being on board a carrier at sea, during war time.  He's been all smiles since the admiral assigned us to the _USS Seahawk_--Harm's old duty station from long before I—or JAG—entered the picture.  I love seeing him so happy and chatty, exuding the trademark confidence and charm of the highly skilled aviator he is, but there's a twinge of guilt and jealousy deep inside me.  Jealousy, however rational or irrational it may be, for the happiness that is singly given from this one staple of Harm's life—flying—and guilt for feeling that way—and even worse, for feeling glad that, on this trip out at least, it's hardly likely Harm will be afforded the opportunity to pilot an F-14.  I, of all people, know how much flying means to Harm, but after the terrifying events of last May—and given that things are finally starting to go right between us—the greater the distance between Harm and his beloved tomcat the better for my nerves.

It's selfish, but…

I just don't want to lose him to any more damn fighter jets.  I just don't want to risk losing him period.  

The Mic fiasco was a hard lesson to stomach—as was the Harm-lost-in-the-Atlantic fiasco.  Both finally brought to light some truths I had desperately been trying to bury under every excuse known to man, ranging from "just friends" to "just a nervous, jittery bride".  Things have improved a lot since my TAD assignment on the _Guadalcanal.  _My self-worth and confidence have risen greatly; my sense of independence has also returned, as has a quiet pleasure in life and work.  And the close, easy friendship I so missed sharing with Harm returned, albeit slowly at first, and has ultimately blossomed into something I scarcely allowed myself to dream of anymore.

Wow.  That sounded a little Hallmark-y.  Anyway, Harm is back in my life, and we're better than ever, but despite everything I have accomplished since that fateful May, Harm still remains my rock, and still remains the man I am in love with.  

The big, bad, tough marine—the kickass jarhead—just doesn't think she could live without him.

I smile wistfully, staring out the helo at the vast ocean, my mind churning with wonder how Harm could survive that night in such a violent, black abyss, all to keep a promise he made to me.      

A trite old saying flickers across my consciousness:  _If you love something, set it free.  If it comes back, it was and always will be yours.  If it never returns, it was never yours to begin with._  

Harm came back.  To JAG.  To me.  Twice.

Both parable and revelation warm me more than anything.  By that token, Harm is, and always will be, mine.  I glance at Harm, who returns my look with an exuberant smile.  He indicates we're just waiting for the clearance to land.

I smile warmly in response, thinking once again how the simple fact of being on an aircraft carrier—even if it's to give some law forum--produces such enthusiasm in Harm.  He's in his element now.

And this time, I don't feel jealous, or guilty.  Just happy for Harm.

And myself.  

I've finally let go. 

*********

I watch the F-14, wings spread, catapult off into the night.  Another is quickly lined up, ready for the signal to launch.  The night is cool and breezy, and the smell of jet fuel is prevalent in the noisy darkness.  I watch another jet shoot off into the velvety blackness comprised of the air and sea and stifle a sigh. 

I still miss it.  

It's not that I want to chuck JAG and go back to sea duty—not that it's an option anyway.  At 35, I was a skilled pilot, but even so, seven years of only carrier quals and reserve flight duty only allotted so much—and it was too late for me to make a career out of that dream.  And I found out that, maybe, I had created a new dream with JAG.  The CAG was right—I do love the challenge and the excitement it often presents.  Not the same as doing mach two and pulling seven G's and dogfighting, but, still, it has its kicks.  

And a kick-ass jarhead.  I smile for a moment, thinking of my marine, before it gives way to my reflections.

It's that, even now at 38, older and wiser (I hope), I find myself itching for a piece of the action.  Crazy hours, long missions--the adrenaline rush I find every time I sit in the pilot seat.  Three long hours in the icy ocean didn't numb that.

I suppose it's something that will never go away.  

But I've made my peace with it.  I lean against the railing and watch another bird take-off.  Even if I did land my six in the cockpit of an F-14, the ride would only be temporary, and the truth is, that's good enough for me.  My service to my country no longer revolves around being an active-duty pilot, but on being a restricted line officer—a lawyer in the JAG corps.

"I knew I'd find you here," a voice interrupts me.  

"How did you find me?" I ask, turning to face Mac.

She gives me a knowing look.  "Where else would I find a former tomcat pilot?"

"In the cockpit of an F-14?" I offer, smiling.

She grins widely.  "Not this trip."  She sounds sympathetic, teasing, and joyful all at once.

"I can dream."

"Hmm."  She smiles again, and looks out into the black night.  I turn and stare with her, noticing another plane has lined up for take-off, before sneaking a glance at my partner.  She looks deep in thought, but relaxed, as whatever it is that occupies her mind causes her no grief.  I leave her to her thoughts, and just enjoy her company, glad she is with me and that things are so good between us.  

I've been…considering…taking a more permanent step between us.  I'm just not sure how such a move would be received right now.  It's still pretty early in our new relationship, and even though I'm ready, she may not want to just jump into that.  Maybe it's best if I don't rock the boat.  Enjoy the here and now, Commander.  

She pulls me away from my thoughts, and what she says about her time aboard the _USS Guadalcanal_ amazes me.

"There was a time you hated it here," I remind her.

"Things change."

"Yes, they do," I concur.  I drink in her warmth, her sunny, thoughtful expression and add, "I'm glad you're here."  There is no one on this earth I would want to share this with than her.

I lock eyes with her before she averts her gaze, a shy smile gracing her features.  I want to kiss her so bad, but I can't.  Not here, anyway.  I settle for watching her smile that brilliant, joyful, sweet smile.  I can tell she's happy with my comment and that makes me happy.  

Finally doing something right with that mouth of yours, Rabb.

*********

La, da, la, la, la, la.

I feel like singing.

I feel like dancing.

I feel like jumping up and down screaming and clapping and dancing and singing and spinning around so fast that I finally fall to the ground, dizzy but infinitesimally happy.

I love that man.

I, Sarah MacKenzie.  Love.  Harmon.  Rabb.  Jr.

I don't know how he does it.  It's not "I love you" but it has to be close.  That has to be the pilot-speak equivalent.

I bounce across my stateroom and flop on my bunk, managing to avoid clobbering my head on the upper bunk just in time.

My enjoyable experiences at sea--and particularly on carriers--have just grown exponentially.

I sigh blissfully and picture his handsome face, the honesty and tenderness evident as he tells me he's "Glad I'm here."  I'd have given anything to kiss him then.  I'd give anything to kiss him now.

I'd give anything to get him alone in my stateroom, for a few unaccounted and unnoticed hours.

Harmon Rabb.  You never cease to amaze me.  I'm so glad I told him how I felt—how things are different now.  That I'm okay with certain aspects of his life that used to worry me.

I don't think I'll ever be able to fall asleep, the scene from the railing playing over and over in my head, but somehow I manage it, and of course, my dreams are filled with my tall, handsome aviator in his dress whites.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

**********

I make some notes on my outline as I listen absently to the bustle of the carrier, and the wardroom, go on around me.  Harm disappeared about twenty minutes ago, leaving me, once again, to start typing our report to the admiral.  He's probably on vulture's row, watching the planes land and launch.  Oh well.  After what happened there last night, I'm willing to cut my partner a little slack.

I take a sip of my coffee, staring at the WindowsNTÒ icon as I wait for my laptop to boot up.  Thinking of Harm invariably causes a smile to form on my face.  

Things are certainly progressing nicely between us emotionally, and physically.  Would have even more so on the latter, had Sergei not been there.  Then again, if he hadn't, Harm would have insisted, once again, on sleeping on the couch.  Sometimes, I wish he wasn't quite so chivalrous.  My little suggestion, combined with Sergei's presence, gave him a good reason not to be.

Maybe when we get back from this assignment, Harm and I can spend a few uninterrupted hours together.  Maybe see a movie.  Or rent one, have a night in.  Get the fire going, and enjoy a snowy evening together.  Maybe spend a whole weekend together, just the two of us.

A pair of khakis catches my eye, and I look up from my coffee to see Harm steaming his was towards my table.  He looks quite pleased about something.  In fact, the only time I ever see that look on his face is when…

My stomach tightens instinctively.

"Mac!  Guess what!"

I already know.

**********

Well, I have to admit that, like everything else he wears, Harm looks damn handsome in his flightsuit and gear.  The self-assured smile, the height, his build—hell, his skin, hair, and eye coloring—all contribute to the very picture of a dashing naval aviator.

I'm a little ambiguous about Harm's whole part in this.  This is more than just some exercise; this is an actual mission into actual enemy territory, with the very possibility—the very likelihood--that Harm could experience some serious action.  Not that Harm has never seen it, as his two DFCs and other ribbons can attest to.  He flew in Desert Storm, and of course during the Bosnian war.  But, still, I love him, and I think I'm entitled to worry a little, though I'm not about to show it around him.  However, we still have a duty here, and this _is_ a perfect opportunity to put into action what we put into words at the JAG forum.

I'm doing fine, maintaining my composure, until Harm's RIO, Lt. Jorgenson, introduces herself.  Her presence isn't what cracks my rigid resolve; it's her topic of conversation.  I don't mind talking about Skates, or even the light flirting the lieutenant is engaging in, but when Harm recaps the events of that stormy May night, I feel my anxiety increase tenfold.  Being reminded, from Harm's own lips, of how he almost died, that, if it wasn't for maybe Skates, the medics, and certainly divine intervention, Harm would have succumbed to hypothermia, puts a strain on my already tenuous bravado. 

"Commander, do a lot of things happen to you?" Jorgenson asks.

"Well, certainly that week."

Harm flashes a wry smile following this declaration his eyes flickering to me, but his expression is mostly guarded, and the best I can make out is, perhaps, an apology of sorts to me, for the hell that was that night.  But I can't be sure.  I do my best to return his smile, but the result reflects the strain of the effort.  Harm's in nearly full pilot-mode, the control of which he so cherishes—and is so skilled at—shields most of his emotions.  Still, I think there's something there behind those hooded eyes—perhaps it's the realization of how much could have been lost on that one night—but he turns back to his RIO.    

"This ought to be interesting."

Harm seems glad to end the conversation, and put to rest all topics regarding his most recent crash.  In truth, he needs to.  His head should be clear for the mission and not with the lingering doubts and fears and whatever other emotional responses still resonate from that ordeal.

I find copying that clear-headedness harder to do.  

This is just a test, MacKenzie.  You said you were…okay…with certain aspects.  Now it's time to put up or shut up.  I'm not going to let the demons that once haunted our relationship surface again.  This is the chance to finally get things right, and I'm not about to waste it.

And I'm determined to get one thing right, in particular.  Just before he steps into the corridor, I tug on his sleeve.  He stops, half out the doorway and looks back at me.  

"Good luck, flyboy," I manage to say with an even voice, though it's not as strong as I would like it to be.

He flashes a brief smile, lacking its usual brilliance, but his eyes sparkle with recognition and gratitude.

"See you after the mission, Mac."

*********

As soon as his lumbering form disappears down an adjoining corridor, I haul ass to the bridge.  My participation (thankfully) is required for the demonstration the CAG wants to perform, and I am grateful for the front row view and insider information the position affords me.  I need that connection to Harm.  I want to know and hear what's going on, for better or for worse.  Any piece of information, no matter how disheartening would be better than the few hours I spent not knowing, not hearing anything after he went down at sea.  

Like Harm, I value control.  

I only wish, at times, I could hang onto it as well as he does.

I almost smile, thinking most days I condemn that tightly held control he wields like a saber and shield.

I hear the CAG give the signal to launch and I shake myself out of my thoughts and step closer to the windows, registering distantly the inquisitive look the XO gives me, but most of my brain is intent on maintaining visual contact with Harm.

I watch his plane line up and launch, and I continue to watch until even the last tiny speck of his sleek F-14 disappears into the clouds, my heart heavy with conflict and ache.  

I remind myself of my parable that earlier gave me so much peace.

Please, bring him back to me once more.

*********

The tailhook slams me hard against the seat, the echoes of "Eject! Eject! Eject!" still bouncing off the inner walls of my skull.  I have never felt such a welcome jolt as that particular tailhook grabbing the number two wire.  

Christ Almighty that was close.  I'm starting to feel maybe I'm getting a little too old for this.

I hear a heavy sigh of relief from Lt. Jorgenson and I glance in the rearview mirror and catch her eye as I echo it.  She gives me a thumbs-up and a weak smile.  

We're both a little rattled yet.

I pop the canopy release and we clamber out, my eyes sweeping the deck instinctively for Mac, before remembering she's probably still on the bridge.

Shit.  I hope she's okay.  If she's on the bridge then she surely heard every radio transmission I gave about my status and position.  From what bits and pieces I've collected about the night of her rehearsal, she was pretty shaken up by the news I had gone down.  I'm sure my latest adventure did nothing to quell her anxiety.  I know how much my flying used to bother her; this little episode probably opened old wounds.

I've managed to gain my equilibrium once again and, apparently, so has Lt. Jorgenson.  As we make our way to the debriefing, she comments,

"I was right about you.  Things happen when you're around."  I smile slightly, thinking that's certainly one way of looking at it.  

"Ma'am," she acknowledges, and I turn to find my marine in her greens (and khakis) waiting patiently outside the Ready room.  She looks her usual, composed, tough-as-nails self, complete with an amused smile in place.

"Mac," I greet, glad to see her, wondering if that unworried façade is just that.  She gives me brief smile and nod, as she returns the lieutenant's greeting.

"I'll, uh, I'll catch up with you in the Ready room, Lieutenant."

"And I'll buy.  If they ever finish debriefing you."  She flashes a smile at me, a look at Mac, and thankfully proceeds before I get in any deeper with Mac.  I know it's coming…

Sure enough.

"How nice.  You've made a friend," she remarks pleasantly.

"Maaac," I drawl warningly, as I make my way to the Ready room.  She just smirks.

"Oh, she's right.  Things happen when you're around," she continues, following.

"Were you worried?" I ask, wondering if everything really is as okay as it seems.

"Not for a moment," she replies with a breezy smile as she moves past me.  

Hmmm.

I think I don't give my marine enough credit.

**********

"Enter!" a voice beckons.  I open the hatch and step into Mac's stateroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. Mac's already hard at work on her laptop, and on our report to the admiral.  I feel a little guilty, as she's been doing all the paperwork so far, while I've been off living the high life on a carrier.

"Hey, Mac."

"Oh, good.  You're just in time to read it over," she remarks, giving me a pointed look.

"You're all done?"

"Almost.  Typing my conclusions now."

"Don't you mean 'our'?" I tease, knowing she probably wants to hit me.  I receive another look.  There's a quick tap-tap-tappity-tap of the keys and suddenly she stands and gestures to the seat she just vacated.  I take her spot and begin reading her—er, our—report.

About two paragraphs in I add a couple comments, eliciting a laser stare from Mac.

"What are you doing?" she asks, standing up from her seat on the bunk and moving to hover over my shoulder.

"Adding a few remarks."

"What remarks?" she demands.

"There's a few things you forgot to mention in your report.  I just added them in."

"What things?"  She reaches over me and tries to move the pointer back up to my additions.  She smells absolutely incredible.  

It's not like she's dwarfed in Chanel, or Beautiful, but she smells so heavenly that I release my hold on the 'down' arrow key and breathe in the sweet scent.  Her presence reminds me we're almost done here with our objective; in fact, we'll be returning on the morning cod.  

Not a moment too soon, as far as I'm concerned.  The lax decorum around JAG of late is one thing, but I'm not about to risk the same kind of behavior out here.  After spending several tours on carriers, I know there's no privacy and I know how fast scuttlebutt moves.  Mac and I don't need to embarrass ourselves, or our uniforms, trying to temper our passion.  Not to mention I served on the _Seahawk_ and that's really not the legacy I want to leave.  

"Harm!" she cries, jerking me out of my thoughts.

"What?"

"I mention this further down.  If you would just _read_ the report first—the _entire_ report—then maybe you wouldn't _have_ to add comments."

"Well, to be honest, Mac, it would fit better right here."

"_You_--" she starts, her dark eyes flashing, "have some nerve."

I must, because she's yelling at me and all I can think about is how good she looks doing it, and that she'd look even better without that uniform on.  Thank my lucky stripes she can't read my mind.  She tends to get even pricklier when she feels she's not being taken seriously.

"While you've been off being Harmon Rabb, I've been quietly doing all the paperwork—without, might I mention, receiving so much as a 'thank you'—and then you just show up and start rearranging things and adding your two cents as though I can't compose a competent memo to the admiral."

"Mac…"

"You're really irritating you know?  Most days I want to strangle you and kiss you at the same time," she adds, almost to herself.

"Well…" I say, seeing an opportunity.

"Although right now, I just want to strangle you."

Damn.

"Look, Mac.  The report looks great.  Thank you for handling all of it."

"Hmph."  She quickly taps the cursor to the beginning of my comments and holds down the delete key.  About halfway through the second comment she stops.  "Hmm…actually we could probably keep that one."

"Thanks," I mutter sarcastically.  "Glad to be of help."  She gives me a Look, and I retype what she erased, snapping my fingers against the keys.  We stare each other down for a few seconds before she returns to her bunk and I return to reading her—our—report.

"So, Mac," I say, seeing another place where I can 'add my two cents,' as she put it, and hoping my talking will drown out the sound of my fingers on the keyboard.  "You doing anything this weekend?"

"Are you adding _more_ comments?" she demands.

"I was thinking we could do something this weekend.  Maybe see a movie, if you want.  You got any ideas?"

"Well, I could probably tend to your hands.  By Saturday I'll probably feel guilty enough for breaking them."

"Vicious, Marine.  Seriously, though.  What do you think?"

"I was being serious, Harm.  If you don't get your fingers off those keys—"

"You know what might be nice?  Going away for the weekend."  There it's out.  I said it.  It's on the table.  

A long silence follows this statement.  I'm starting to wish I held my tongue.

"Wow."

I turn my head towards her in surprise.

"That sounds like a great idea, Harm.  I was kind of thinking the same thing," she smiles shyly.

"Really?" I ask pleased we finally seem to be on the same wavelength and that I haven't been reading her signals wrong.  For once.  "So whatcha wanna do, Mac?"

"Have Harmon Rabb, Jr. all to myself," she answers, and I swear the door must have closed more than I thought because it's rather hot in here.

"Well, that is the idea, Marine," I manage to reply with some pretense of control.

"Hmm.  Now where do I want to have Harmon Rabb, Jr. all to myself?" she muses.  Great, now I'm starting to sweat.  This laptop sure generates a lot of heat.

"That's what we're trying to figure out," I remind her.  I try to focus on the words she has written, but it might as well be Greek.  All I can think about is her in the sexy white nightgown she wore in Russia.  The feel of those curves I became somewhat acquainted with the night we hotbunked in my bed.

"Hmm."  The way she utters the sound causes the blood to beat loudly in my ears.  

"Think of anything?"

"Maybe," she smiles devilishly.  "Be sure to pack light."

**********


	18. Chapter Eighteen

*********

2153 ZULU (1653 EST)

MAC'S APARTMENT

GEORGETOWN

The elevator doors ding open and I step out with Mac, our lips fastened tightly together as we make our way slowly and awkwardly to her door, weighted down with our bags, but careful not to lose contact.  

It's been a long week.  And a long flight.  And an interminably long period since I've been able to kiss or touch Mac.  (Well, a week, anyway.)  And an even more interminably long period since I've kissed or touched _any_ woman, but I'm trying to not let that be my motivating factor here.

However, the euphoria I'm feeling right now is making that rather difficult.  In just a couple of hours we'll be on our way to the Smoky Mountains to spend a weekend blessedly alone—away from JAG, Sergei, and any admirals who may call at inopportune moments.  I will finally be alone with the woman who has haunted my dreams for as long as I can remember.  The vision of Sarah McKenzie wrapped only in a blue towel, fresh from the shower, the sight of a white lingerie clad marine, the knowledge of a certain tattoo—all this could be mine by nightfall.  

It's enough to make one dizzy with anticipation.  Or desperate as hell.

We reach her door, and I press her against it, glad to have her trapped between it and myself.  I drop my sea bag, and start fumbling with the buttons on her blouse before I realize she has my blouse untucked and halfway unbuttoned.  Glad I'm not the only one feeling a bit impatient.

"Harm," she breathes, after a moment, her eyes opening and surveying the corridor, which is thankfully devoid of any voyeurs, because right now, we're putting on a pretty good show.  She places her delicate hands against my chest and gives me a gentle push.  "We can't do this out here."

I suppose she's right, but I'm tempted to anyway.  This is not the conduct of a good officer.  Then again, some of the stuff I'm considering doing to Mac is neither becoming of a good officer nor gentlemanly.  

"Just let me get my keys," she removes my hands from her blouse.  She's right.  I take a deep breath and try to calm myself down a little, giving myself a mental shake.

She works the lock while I admire her backside, telling myself just because it's been…a while…a long while…doesn't mean I should just ravish Mac like some sailor who's been on a six-month cruise and just arrived in port.  

Actually, my cruise has been about eight or nine months.  

Christ.  

She's worth it, though, Rabb, isn't she?  I take another look at her, this time not just salivating over her posterior.  Yes, she's definitely worth the wait.  It would have, admittedly, been a much shorter one had I gotten my six in gear a couple years ago—or even, maybe, a year before then—but perhaps because it's been such an agonizing long journey to reach this point—and I'm not just talking sex, here—makes the reality of it that much more sweeter.  We are finally getting a few things—the important things—right.  And I intend on getting the most important one soon.  Which reminds me, I need to get my hands on that Marine Corps ring.  How to do that…?  Hmm…

"Are you just going to stand out there?" she asks, holding the door open, looking curiously at me.  

Well, I'll have plenty of time to devise a plan later.  Right now…

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Marine," I breathe, taking two long strides forward and finding her mouth once again.

I should really take the effort to do things right; show Mac how much she means to me.  Sweep her up in my arms and carry her off to bed.  We make it as far as about four feet into her living room, enough for me to waltz in, toss my bags aside, and pull her back in my arms, and back against the door.  We both finish with each other blouses and toss them aside as well.

"Where's Jingo?" I ask, for some insane reason.  He didn't come to the door to greet us, and generally he waits for Mac.  

"Neighbor's got him.  We've been gone all week, you know.  Somebody had to feed him and walk him."

"Oh, right," I acknowledge absently, working on her pants.  Suddenly she pulls away, a smile so flirty and seductive the blood whooshes out of my brain at mach speed.

"Hold that thought, Sailor."  She disappears before I can summon a response from the vacuum in my head.  

"Well, I'm ready when you are, Harm."  I turn around and what I see almost sets me wheezing.

It's _the_ nightgown.  That white, lacy, clings-to-all-the-right-curves number that has enchanted me ever since that trip to Russia.

"Ready?"  I echo dumbly.  

"Yes, I'm all packed."

I glance around her, but I don't see a bag or suitcase at her feet or clutched in her hands, but I must say I didn't really pull my attention away from the main features for too long to really notice.

"Packed?"  I admit I'm not at my most cognitive right now.

"What do you think?"  She spins around gracefully, and I realize in bright American lighting her gown is kind of sheer.

"I think you might get cold," I rasp out, finding her apartment awfully warm.  

"Hmm," she murmurs, stepping _very_ close, and slipping her arms around my neck.  "I don't know.  I have you to keep me warm," she whispers breathily against my ear.  

I make a small noise that sounds like a combination whine and groan, and yank her on her toes, unable to keep my hands and lips off her any longer.  I want her so bad my hands are trembling through her hair, and it just doesn't seem, no matter how tight I pull her against me, how well she molds her body against mine, that it will ever be close enough.  

"You know," she says, slipping her hands under my T-shirt, and her touch inflames my already incendiary response.  I crush her even tighter and wonder how this can't be hurting her.  "We might be more comfortable in the bedroom."

This time I do sweep her up in my arms, and she rewards my gallantry with another sassy smile and a deep kiss.  I deposit her as gently as possible onto her bed, ignoring the stab of protest from my over-ejected back, and furiously kick off my shoes.

She whips my belt through the loops and drops it beside the bed.  My T-shirt is gone with the same alacrity.  I'm bare-chested and thinking (the process has returned, but on emergency power only) that it's only fair if we even up the score.

I flash her my best evil grin, and a blush immediately stains her cheeks, but she has that feisty, defiant, passionate look that she gets when we go head-to-head over something and it's all I can do to keep from ravishing her right now.

*********

Harm has his fingers on the straps of my nightgown, and I know he's just dying to slip it off.  That night at his apartment, he developed a particular fondness for my chest, but given the circumstances, he wasn't able to spend as much time on that area as I'm sure he would've liked.  

He glances up from my shoulders and stares into my eyes, passion and tenderness flooding his eyes, and holds my gaze, that intensity so inherent in everything about him radiating from his eyes.  Gently, in contrast to the impatient fingers at my shoulders, he lowers his head and sears my mouth with a kiss.  Slowly he drifts away from my lips and down, nibbling at my chin, my neck, my shoulder, and slowly he slides the straps and gown down…

And then I hear it.  

"Harm?  Harm."  

His attention is no-doubt occupied by the sight soon to be revealed to him, so he probably doesn't register the pounding on my front door right off.    

Dammit!  Why does this always happen?  We're ready!  We are on the same wavelength.  We both want the same thing, and every time we try to spend some time alone together, something interrupts the moment.  I've waited six goddman years for this moment, for _this_ relationship, for things to _finally_ be the way I've always dreamed of between us, for Harm to love me and need me, and to want to act on that love and need, and I'm not about to let go of what's taken me so long to gain.

It's like a whole goddamn conspiracy to keep us from being alone together.

"Harm?  The door."  

"Hmm?"  I place a hand over the now loose material partially covering my chest.  He finally looks at me, confusion and worry etched on his handsome face.

"The door."

"Huh?"  Then he hears it.  "Ignore it."

"I can't just ignore it."  His hand slides along my hip, and I think, on second thought, maybe I can.

"Sarah?" a voice calls timidly.

"Oh!  It's Mrs. Eckland."

"Who?"  He asks wonderingly, his hands now skimming along my stomach.

"Mrs. Eckland.  Jingo's sitter.  She probably has Jingo.  I usually pick him up right away when I get back from assignments," I explain.  And I didn't this time, and she's probably wondering if I'm back.  Maybe she saw Harm and I in the hallway.  I feel a flush of warmth wash up and over my ears.

I gesture for him to let me up, and he moves aside with a disappointed sigh.

"I'll just be a few minutes, Harm."  I place a kiss on his pouting lips, and slip into my bathrobe.  "Why don't you…" I pause, trying to think of something he can do in here while I'm busy with Mrs. Eckland, "create a little atmosphere," I finish suggestively.  

That wipes the frown off his face.

*********

Atmosphere…atmosphere…

Personally, I think what we had going before we were interrupted (again, goddammit.  What is up with that?  Suddenly, the Smoky Mountains just doesn't seem far enough away.) contributed nicely to the atmosphere.  Oh, well.  

Hmm…there's not a whole lot to work with in here.  The lights either go on or off; there's no dimmer.  No stereo for some romantic music in the background.  No candles.  No marine in some lacy getup to get the blood pressure of a naval aviator sky high.  There is the lingering _image_…

Wow.  That woman is incredible.  I hear the muffled voices of her and Mrs. Eckland's conversation, and I hope Sarah gets finished with her soon.  I scan the room for atmospheric inspiration before noticing the open bathroom door.  Hmm…maybe she has something in there.

Yes, like a couple of lacy bras draped over the shower rod I wouldn't mind seeing her in, both black.  I wonder if she wears those underneath her uniform.  Something else to keep my mind off of work when I'm there.  Good.  I was just running out of visions of Mac to keep me occupied.

I'm surprised the admiral hasn't said something.  I must be hiding it better than I thought.

A-ha!  Two candles.  

Damn.  

No matches.

They're in the bathroom, looked like they've burned in the bathroom, so wouldn't she have lit them in the bathroom, and therefore kept a box of matches or a lighter around?  I rustle through a couple of drawers and cabinets in her vanity, feeling vaguely guilty for invading her stuff, but unlit candles just don't add anything to the romantic mood.

A-ha!  Found it.  On the back of the toilet no less, but, hey, a striker is a striker.  I hustle back to the bedroom to arrange things.

I place a candle on each side of the bed.  Hmm.  Not bad.  Turn off the lights and a little flickering flame will contribute nicely.  I fold down the comforter and blankets.  All right, getting a little cozier here.  Add a gorgeous marine and we'll be all set.  

I tiptoe to the door, wondering how much longer she'll be.  Pressing my ear close to the doorjamb I listen carefully for any clues.

What I hear makes me rest my head against the wall and sigh.

*********

"Thanks again for doing this, Harm.  You didn't have to."  He hasn't said too much, but he doesn't seem angry.  Just disappointed.  Frankly, I am, too, but there's nothing I can do about it.  The situation can't be helped.  Harm probably realizes that as well.

"Don't worry about it, Mac.  It's easier for Jingo to get in and out of my car than it is yours.  I just hope he's okay."

I sigh worriedly.  "Me too."  Mrs. Eckland came over to tell me she had taken him to the vet this morning after a couple seizures he had last night that had left him staggering, dizzy, and probably hungry, as Mrs. Eckland said he hasn't eaten, to her knowledge, since Wednesday.

"I'm sorry about this weekend, Harm.  And tonight," I add softly.  I really wanted tonight.  And this weekend.  I know he did, too.  

"It's okay, Mac.  I understand.  You need to keep an eye on Jingo.  I could probably use a shower and a few Z's, anyway."

I frown in disappointment.  "You're not going to stay?  You're more than welcome to, Harm." 

"No, I'll go home and get a few things done there.  You're probably exhausted, too, Mac.  It's been a long week."

I turn my head away and stare out the window, feeling like I'm being fed excuses.  What's even more irritating is a little voice in the back of my head saying he's probably right.  

*********

Well, I'm back to my usual role in our relationship.  That of "sayer-of-wrong-things" and "Ineffectual idiot".

She's annoyed and disappointed with me, and I'm annoyed and disappointed with me.  The only who isn't, perhaps, is Jingo; he's lying on my backseat in a posture of happy discomfort.  (Happy, because he's been released from the vet.  Discomfort, because he's still not feeling well.)

I haven't said anything to her regarding my disappointment over tonight--or this weekend—and I know that's the problem.  She keeps apologizing, and I keep reassuring her it's no big deal, but it is, and she knows it and I know it and for crying out loud, am I really so low as to put a missed chance for sex between us?!

I walk Mac and Jingo to their door, and make sure they both get settled in.  I've got to do something here to set things right.

"Call me if you need anything, Mac."  Lame, Rabb, lame.

She nods.  "Thanks again, Harm."  We both look at Jingo, who wags his tail feebly in gratitude as well. 

"Well, I'd better get going."

Mac nods again, and I turn and head for the door.  Two steps away I spin around again to find her right behind me and we both reach for each other.

Like every other time before, our kiss becomes quite involved, and we slowly start drifting back towards the couch, until Jingo's whimpering permeates our senses.

Argghh.

"Jingo!" Mac cries in dismay.

He's just wet the carpet.

TBC…


	19. Chapter Nineteen

**********

Perfect.  Just perfect.  If it hailed gargoyles and snowed lemmings it couldn't possibly make my day any worse than it is already at 0715 in the morning.   It's a friggin' Monday, too, which only marginally tempers my contempt for the today.  The fact that it _is_ Monday means there is the hope, after all, that come Tuesday, my life will no longer suck. 

Today is just fitting, however, after my weekend.

I haven't seen Mac since Saturday, when I stopped by to see how Jingo was doing and to drop off the items she requested: my USNA sweatshirt (She claimed she was cold and that sweatshirt was the only one 'warm and comfy'.  Her comment just served to remind me of how, Friday night, she told me she had me to keep her warm.); the book she was reading when we hotbunked (which just served to remind me of how great it was to have her in my arms and in my bed, and if only we hadn't had an audience in the living room…); and the half dozen or so clues from the game I made up on Valentine's Day (which, again, only served to remind me of _another_ opportunity for sex gone by, if only I had unplugged the damn phone and answering machine).  

There is a battle of wills raging inside, between my intellectual half and my physical half.  My intellectual half knows that there's more to our relationship than just a physical coupling.  Mac means everything to me.  She is the woman I want to call my wife, the mother of my children, my best friend and partner for life.  When I envision my life with a house like the Roberts' new home and a marriage as strong and loving as theirs, Mac is inevitably featured in Harriet's role.  

She is the one--_The One_--for me.  No other woman has captivated me with her wit, her brilliance, her tenacity, her passion, her strength, her spirit, her beauty, and her vulnerability.  I think I could live the rest of my life with her and never be bored or left wanting—she will always enamor me.  

Then there's my other half, the one that incessantly reminds me _270 days and counting, Slick_.  The one that won't be quiet until I satisfy that um, ahem, urge.

I didn't take her up on her invitation to spend the night Friday night, and I think she was a little miffed and hurt.  Perhaps I should've, but…

The truth is being around her and the inability to express how I feel—to show her (without being interrupted) how much she means to me—is driving me crazy.  And, okay, the fact that I haven't had sex in over 270 days (and that's a very conservative tally) is probably factoring largely in my less-than-considerate behavior.

Actually, by Saturday night I was ready to admit I was acting like an ass, and that a night spent in Mac's company, be it lounging on the sofa watching Mac fold her laundry, or watching _Alias_ (taped from last Sunday), or tangling together in the sheets, was a night spent in heaven.  

Of course, like every other time in our relationship (when will you ever learn, Rabb?), it was too late to do anything about it.  Sergei had come by earlier in the day, before Mac called, to sucker me into a night of poker with some of his new buddies.  It was actually upon arriving at the poker game that I began to see what an idiot I was, because a smart man would have said yes to anything Sarah MacKenzie asked—especially when she was kissing the fire out of you while she was doing it—instead of agreeing to spend eight hours in something Capone's men wouldn't have even used for a hideout in a pinch.

Sunday I was all prepared to throw myself at her mercy, and beg her to forgive my inherent stupidity when it comes to things like this between us, but then the admiral called, naturally.  It's like he has a sixth sense or something.  _Hmm…I wonder what Rabb is doing…I bet he's getting ready to go over to the colonel's and apologize for whatever stupid thing he's done this week.  Hmm…I noticed they've been awfully…close…these past couple of weeks.  And then there was his behavior on Valentine's Day…something's definitely going on between those too.  I better call and make sure he's not compromising the integrity of the Navy.  Or the colonel._

However, he did have a good excuse to call me yesterday, and what he told me about Bud's trial kept me occupied for the rest of the afternoon with strategies (should it for some insane reason go to court martial, but I would expect Sturgis wouldn't slam the lieutenant with that) and guilt.  Bud asked for my help and all I could do was drool over my little foray in the library with Mac.  What kind of officer and friend am I?  Maybe if I had got my act together a little, Bud wouldn't be going through this.

Dammit, Rabb.  If you're going to have a relationship with Mac you're going to have to show that it won't affect your focus and capabilities at work.  So far you haven't done anything to prove that.

I arrive at work thoroughly annoyed and disgusted with myself.  

*********

Just when you think you know someone.  I can't believe Sturgis.  I thought he was a good guy, someone who you could count on to help you in a fix.  I thought wrong, apparently, and the realization, along with the information that Bud will face a court martial courtesy of Commander Turner's recommendation, does nothing to improve my crappy mood.  

What annoys me even more is Sturgis seems surprised that I'm not impressed with his 'efforts' on Bud's investigation.  Charging him with dereliction of duty due to neglect and culpable inefficiency.  Unbelievable.  Hasn't he ever had an off day in court?  When I ask him that, he shakes his head no.

"What's it like to be perfect?" I snort in disgust.  He just returns my glare with one of his own.

I take a few more jabs at him, not caring about using a friend and fellow officer as a punching bag for my frustration.  But he catches me with a right hook I'm not prepared for.

"I'm Bud's friend, too, Harm.  That's the whole of it."

*********

I'm surprised when I arrive at JAG to see Harm's SUV already in the lot before 0800.  Twice in a month now.  Previously, we were working a big case.  I don't know what his excuse is today.  

Harriet gives me an idea when she nervously asks if I have a meeting with the admiral, too.

"No.  Not that I know of, Harriet.  Is something going on?"  Obviously the answer to that is "yes", MacKenzie.  The admiral doesn't just hold meetings because he wants to know what everyone did over the weekend.

"You didn't hear, ma'am?" 

"Hear what?"  Apparently Harm has heard something if he's at JAG bright and early.  Harriet nervously explains the situation with Bud and his trial against Singer.  

"What do you think, ma'am?  You think that Bud might be--?"

"I don't know, Harriet.  I'm sure Commander Turner will give the lieutenant every consideration in his investigation.  Commander Turner is very fair."

She nods, mulling over what I said.  "I'm sure you're right ma'am.  I'm just worrying over nothing."  She gives me a weak smile and disappears out of the bullpen towards the library.  The admiral's door opens and Sturgis walks out.  I can't tell for sure by his step what his recommendation is, but when, a moment later, Harm marches out, I know it wasn't in Bud's favor.  

Harm makes a beeline for Sturgis and soon I can just make out the angry hiss of their words before they disappear in Harm's office.  The voices get louder, but I'm pulled away from the spectacle when my phone rings.

It doesn't matter—I know the outcome now.  Bud's going to be court-martialed.  

*********

When I reenter the bullpen, Harm and Sturgis are nowhere in sight, but Bud is shuffling towards his office.

"Bud, I heard.  I'm sorry," I tell him.

"Thank you, ma'am." 

"Wish there was something I could do to help," I offer, knowing that Harm has been assigned as defense and grateful for that.  There is no zealous defense attorney like Harm, especially when he's defending somebody who's being made a scapegoat, or when the client is a close friend.  This court martial has elements of both in Harm's mind.  I know he wasn't happy with Sturgis's findings and recommendation.  

And even though I am sorry it happened to Bud, I think Sturgis's findings were fair, and the recommendation necessary to avoid the appearance of favoritism.  I'm not going to voice this opinion to Harm, though.  From what I've seen he's not exactly in an objective frame of mind right now, and he'd no doubt regard my comment as blasphemy.  

"There is," a voice resonates behind me, and a moment later my handsome sailor appears, the scowl that has been present on his face since he came out of the admiral's office momentarily absent.

I haven't seen him since Saturday, since our botched attempt at a weekend getaway.  Since we almost wound up in bed together.  So damn close…now's not the time to focus on that, MacKenzie.  

"You can take the stand.  You can be our expert on JAG procedures," Harm continues.

"Bad idea," I reply.  He does not look happy with my response, and even less so with my reasons, but he grudgingly acquiesces.  Bud is more forgiving.  Before Harm can start in—and I can see that he wants to—Harriet walks over.  We all put on our best calm, neutral, faces, and greet her.

She looks at us closely.  "There's going to be a trial."

*********

Somewhere along the way I must've really pissed somebody off--although, I can't pinpoint whom that somebody is.  It's the only logical explanation for this day—a day straight from the fiery pits of hell.  

Things still aren't quite right with Mac.  Then of course, there's the whole fiasco with Bud, which is proving to be a nightmare within a nightmare.  I think he's taking it better than I am.  Then there was the conversation earlier with my mother.  I've had root canals that were pleasanter.

It started out okay.  The usual, "Hi mom, it's me" and her customary "Harm!  Hello, darling, I was just thinking about you."  Then the standard questions about how I'm doing, how's work, how's Mac—a turn in the conversation that lasted about ten minutes as I tried desperately to get us back on topic (any topic)—how's the gallery, how's she doing, how's Frank, before finally the cue to get down to business:  "Was there something you needed, darling?"  

Ten minutes later I hung up the phone and went in search of Mac, in need of her empathy and assurances that, despite whatever I was feeling, I was not the heartless, uncaring, ungrateful son I certainly had to be for asking my mother to part with such an important piece of my father.  Those letters are all she has left of his memory—oh, and the son that looks just like him, who had the nerve to ask for those private, cherished letters to prove the legitimacy of her husband's _other_ son.  

The worst part is I understand why she doesn't want to give them up.  I know how hard it is for her to accept…Sergei's existence.  To accept that dad found comfort in another woman's arms, and even more, that dad fathered another child.  It was hard for me to accept.  But I could rationalize it, and that helped.  It had been, after all, eleven years since his capture—that, deep in Siberia, he had to know he would most likely never get out, and never see either mom or I again.  Maybe it was good that he found that little bit of comfort—and maybe, though it still hurts to admit it, happiness—before he died.  She knows this as well as I.  

Knowing something doesn't make feeling the pain any easier, however.  

Anyway, I couldn't find Mac anywhere, and now I'm talking to Singer, trying to see if I can trick her into revealing her motive.  Any misfortune that befalls Bud is an opportunity for her.  She's shrewd enough to know how to play such an opportunity to her best advantage.  And she's intelligent enough to know when to keep her mouth shut.  As is the case now.

"That would be unfortunate, Commander," she replies to my comment regarding Bud's possible conviction.

"I bet you'd be real broken up," I remark sarcastically.

"Excuse me," she replies coolly, and slips away.  I heave a sigh of disgust and frustration.  Just as well.

"Harm!"  Sergei.  I know why he's here, too.  Great.  This day just keeps getting better and better.

"Is that Lieutenant Singer?" He asks, smiling happily.

"Yeah," I respond flatly.

"How is she?"

"Adorable as ever," I reply sourly.  

"Have you talked to your mother?"  

God.  Here we go.  

*********

"How's it going, Sailor?" I venture, against my better judgment.  The Voice of Reason tells me that the stiff posture of his bent form, the deep furrow of his brow, and the unhappy line of his mouth mean his day has not improved in the slightest since it started.

He grumbles a response, and if there was any doubt as to the accuracy of my assessment, it's been shushed by his reply.

Still, gutsy Marine I am, I step into his office and close the door.

"I saw Sergei earlier."

He looks up from his reading and glowers at me, but his eyes are pained, and for the first time I see something beyond his frustration.

"Did you talk to your mom?" I ask cautiously.  He looks back down at his desk and nods.

"Is she--?"

"No."

"I'm sorry, Harm.  She'll come around.  Just give her time."

"That's what I told Sergei," he snorts.

"Well, it's all you can do, Harm."

"It's not enough.  Sergei's right.  We don't have enough time.  If we don't receive those letters soon he may be deported.  And I can't push my mother—how does that look?  Like I could give a rat's ass about my mother's feelings.  I already feel like a bastard for even asking for the letters.  I know how she feels about this whole situation."

"Hey," I admonish softly, "just give her a little time.  I know how much you love your mother, Harm.  And she knows it, too.  She knows you're not doing this to hurt her.  It's just hard having for her no longer having the monopoly on your father's legacy."

"Huh?"

"You, flyboy," I say, with a smile.  "You're her son.  Their son.  You're so much like him.  And now certain traits that you've inherited from your father may no longer be yours alone."  

"I just feel so…"

"Helpless?" 

"Frustrated."

Because you feel helpless, I think silently, but I should've known better than to think that Harm would admit to it.  

"How's Bud's case going?"

"Don't ask," is the curt reply.  "I can't believe Sturgis recommended this to court-martial."

"Harm, he's just doing his job.  If Sturgis hadn't made that recommendation it would've looked like favoritism and you know it."

The 'hmph' I receive tells me he's at least somewhat receptive to the facts.  I may not be burned at the stake for what I say next.

"Harm it's not fair to take this out on Sturgis.  You know Sturgis considers the lieutenant a good friend, and I'm sure it was hard to have to come to the decision to charge him with D.O.D. 'due to neglect and culpable inefficiency.'"

"I've read the report, thank you," Harm mutters sullenly, and I know I'm starting to get my point across.

"Well, why don't you take a break from the case and come to McMurphy's tonight with me," I offer, changing the subject.

He leans back and gives me the first genuine smile I've seen from him all day.  Feeling radiant, I grin in response glad to have elicited such a beautiful smile from my cranky sailor.

"I suppose I should," he muses.

"Why is that?"

"I owe you an apology for how I acted this weekend.  Friday.  I let…" he falters, and I lean forward in anticipation, knowing Harm doesn't stammer unless the subject matter is something uncomfortable.  And uncomfortable with Harm generally means something of a personal nature.  And _that_ usually means his (intense) feelings regarding something or someone.  And that someone is usually me.

"I acted like…I mean, it shouldn't have been that big of a deal that we couldn't spend time together…like we, you know, wanted to…what I mean is you mean more to me than just, ahem, uh, sex," he finally chokes out, and then speeds on by, "I mean, I certainly wasn't acting like a good friend when I just left you there with Jingo—how is he doing by the way?—and I'm sorry for acting like…well…a jerk."  He looks at me with that pleading look that just says accept his inept apology so we can hurry up and forget about the whole thing.

I've just picked up on something, though, and I'm not about to let the matter drop just yet.  

"I wish you could have stayed Saturday."

"Me, too," he sighs.  "I had already promised Sergei I'd go to his card game with him."

"You could've stopped by after the game."

"We didn't get done until after two in the morning.  I didn't want to wake you if you were asleep.  I know how you are if you don't get your beauty rest," he says with a small grin.

"Marines don't require 'beauty' rest, unlike certain cranky squids," I tease.  "Besides, I was up, thinking of you and keeping an eye on Jingo.  He's doing better.  Only one spell since Friday night.  Eating a bit better, too.  His tests show he has hypothyroidism, and the vet thinks that might be causing dizziness," I say, "so he's got him started on thyroid medication."

"That's good.  And what do you mean cranky?  I'm just tired, is all."

"Oh, is that all?"

"Yes.  What would you call it?" he asks impatiently.  I know what I would call it, and it's not sleep deprivation.

"Oh, I don't know what exactly I would call it.  I suspect it's probably something that could be easily remedied.  Maybe by a weekend away.  Or a night like our Friday was shaping up to be before Mrs. Eckland and Jingo."

He avoids my eyes and doesn't respond right away and now I _know_ I'm on to something.  "I don't know about you, Harm, but I could certainly do with getting a certain sailor out of his shorts and into my arms." 

"Can't say I feel that way," he finally replies.

"You don't?" I ask anxiously.  Oh christ, I got it wrong.  How could I have misread him?  Because you've done it a dozen times before, MacKenzie, or does Sydney Harbor ferry ride not ring a bell?

"No.  Now a marine," he continues, "I could certainly rid a marine of her greens."

Whew.  Damn him for scaring the hell out of me like that.

"Maybe if you're a good sailor tonight a certain marine might just give you the chance."

He smiles again, his wide toothy grin, before growing serious again.  "Mac, I, uh, don't want you to think all I want, uh, is…that.  If we just spend the evening organizing your shoe collection that would be enough for me."

I smile, knowing what he's trying so ineffectually to say.  I know he wants more than just sex from our relationship.  I know I mean more than just that to him, that his feelings for me run much deeper than that, but has a difficult time expressing it in a manner which satisfies both of us (but bravo for the work he did on Vulture's Row).  I also know he's a man, and I suspect it's been a long time since Harm's had relations.  I also suspect that's been for me, for us.  Since Renee broke up with him—since his crash—he's focused his efforts mostly on work and nursing the once fledgling friendship we shared.  That subtle monogamy says more about his feelings for me than most words could.  I have finally started paying attention to the little nuances of Harm, and I know his actions speak for him when words fail or are inadequate.

I can't imagine making love with Harm to be any different.

"Hmm, well, that's a very nice offer, Commander, but I'm sure we can find some more interesting and less lofty ways to occupy our evening.  Unless you have an early curfew."

"Well, I _should_ probably work some more on Bud's case tonight.  Maybe we can skip McMurphy's and grab dinner.  Maybe order a pizza, or something."

"Well, I promised Sturgis that I'd drop by."

"Sturgis?"

"Yeah, Sturgis is organizing a little shindig at McMurphy's.  He asked me to invite you.  I think he's still not sure whether you'd try to stuff his head in a file drawer."  I give him a pointed look.  He looks only slightly apologetic over his behavior.  "He and Bobbi are going, and they invited me, you and the Admiral, too."

"Is the admiral going?"

"Yeah, he said he'd meet us there."

"If we go that means we can't act like we're seeing each other.  And we can't arrive together.  Or leave together."

"Yes, we can.  We are, above all else, still friends, Harm," I point out.  "We _can_ carpool without being suspect."

"Actually, I need to talk to the admiral and Bud before the day's over.  We probably _won't_ be arriving together."

"So does that mean you're coming?"

"Yes, Marine, I suppose it does."

"Does that also mean you're going to give Sturgis a break?"

He scowls.  I stare him down.  He returns the look defiantly before he rolls his eyes, and mutters grudgingly, "I suppose."

"Good."

I exit his office feeling good.  Once again a marine has stormed the beaches and come out with victory in her hands.


	20. Chapter Twenty

"I'm a little surprised you asked me to join you here, Sturgis," I say by way of greeting.  Mac and the admiral are already seated at the bar, sipping on their respective drinks.  Sturgis, standing behind them, turns to face me.

"Things _have_ been a little tense at the office."

"No, you think?" says the smart-ass who talked me into coming.  I give her a look and she returns it with an innocent smile.

"Do us good to bury the legal hatchet here tonight," the admiral agrees.

"Here, here."

I stare at Mac, imagining us alone and away from the office, her eyes dancing as she makes some flip comment, her radiant smile teasing and inviting.  She's exactly what I need after this day.  However, it has started to look up since I talked with Petty Officer Massuco.  Mac steals a glance at me, and we share a silent conversation in which I plead with her to leave and she admonishes me to be patient.

The arrival of Bobbi Latham and some blonde woman end the discussion, and I turn my thoughts away from my marine, and back to the subject at hand: introductions.

"Nice to meet you, Caroline," I say politely, shaking her hand.  She gives Mac and the admiral a polite nod each when Bobbi introduces them, and I start thinking maybe I should order a good stiff drink.  It looks like this may be a long night.  Great, just when things were looking up.  Suck it up, Commander.  

"Would you ladies like something to drink?" I offer.  I notice a weird look cross Mac's face.  Something akin to "here we go."  What the hell is that look for?  I take Carolyn's drink order and she moves to stand beside me and I smile, trying not to get too distracted by Mac's behavior.

********

"So you're an attorney?" I hear her ask and I can't help but think how original.  Harm, being Harm, gives her his full attention and smiles politely—he always thinks it's rude not to be the perfect gentleman and officer he so prides himself on. 

Thinking about that statement I suppose it _would_ be rude if he just ignored her, but I can't help wishing he would.  That he would turn to me as though there was no one around us—no one he'd rather lavish his attention on to.  In the past couple of weeks I've grown accustomed to having Harm's undivided attention; of being desirable to him, and it's not a position I'm willing to share or relinquish.  There's nothing I can do about it, though, except continue on like nothing is different between us; like we are friends and nothing more.  Bobbi and Sturgis move away to talk about something, leaving the admiral and I to exchange commiserating glances.

Now I wish I had went along with Harm's idea—ordered a pizza and spent some quality time, _alone_, with my grouchy sailor.  I'm also a bit confused as to what we're all doing here.  

I'm here because Sturgis asked me to join him, and Bobbi and the admiral for drinks.  Harm is here because Sturgis asked me to ask him, since Harm and Sturgis—well, Harm has been acting like a spoiled little five year-old, and Sturgis was too chicken to ask Harm himself.  Sturgis knows how I feel about Harm, so I can't understand why he would go along with an idea to hook Harm up with someone—or at the very least, why he would invite me to the spectacle.  So why is Caroline here?

When Sturgis directs his next comment to the admiral, regarding Caroline's occupation as an architect, and the admiral's mild interest in the subject I get an inkling.  

Obviously, Harm has no idea he's mucking up Sturgis and Bobbi's careful matchmaking plan, but then that's Harm.  His 'charming' side tends to surface without provocation, and without regards to who may or may not appreciate it.

Harm makes some joke about the primitive plumbing in his building and we all laugh politely before Sturgis pulls him away.  The admiral seems to be lost in his thoughts so I don't think he hears what's going on, but I can make out some of what they're saying.  

I hear Harm proclaim, "Fine, next time let me do the picking," and I decide I'd better step in, because this is not a venture Harm needs to devote his energies to.  He's liable to find himself serving his country in an igloo on Iceland.  If I'm not careful, I may have the igloo next to him.

"You want to get into this?" Sturgis responds.

"Yeah, I have some ideas."  Great.  I know the kind of ideas Harm has.  

I also know his taste in women (well, tastes prior to _moi_).  I bet my best pair of combat boots that whatever woman he tries to saddle the admiral with will be some blonde.  God help the admiral.

"You two are playing with fire," I warn, fixing the one sailor I may have some influence on with yet another warning look, which he ignores with his own look of patented innocence.  Distantly, I hear a phone ring, and Caroline answers it.

"Mac, you've got to admit, the admiral's been a little cranky lately," says Mr. Pot about Mr. Kettle.  

Of course he's been cranky.  One of his best lawyers is being court-martialed.  And then the attorney defending him is taking the injustice of this out on the prosecution and anyone who has the misfortune of crossing his path.  And then Singer is dogging him every step of the way since she found out Bud was assigned to the Seahawk. 

He's going to be even more thrilled if he finds out half the office is trying to set him up.  Based on my limited experience with the admiral's personal life—and particularly, significant others—it is a rather touchy subject he'd rather as few of his subordinates as possible linger on.  I don't want to be anywhere near this.

"For the record, I want nothing to do with it."  One side of Harm's mouth curls up in a smile and he raises an eyebrow at my declaration.  His posture seems to indicate it's my loss, but I'm sure I'll hear plenty tonight about how I should get in on this (with him), and how the admiral will thank us letter, as will half the staff once _we_ hook him up with the woman of his dreams.  

I swear, Harm, sometimes I think you're a bigger dreamer than I am.  Certainly, a bigger—

"I'm sorry," Caroline cuts in, and we all turn to face her, but her eyes seem to be only locked on Harm's.  That's right, just never mind the Marine standing next to him.  It's not like she could ever possibly mean something to such a good-looking Navy commander.  I mean, he's got the gold wings, he's a pilot and she's just a boring Marine.  

I can't decide which is more unbelievable to my eyes, Caroline handing Harm her card, or Harm taking it, not only with a handsome smile, but pocketing it as well.  Thankfully, she leaves.

Harm looks at Sturgis and I staring disbelievingly at him.  "Hey, don't blame me."

"There'll be plenty of time for that later," I tell Sturgis.

"She was all wrong for him, anyway.  I know what the admiral needs."  Please, for the first twenty or so years of your dating life you had no clue what you needed, Harm.  I'm still not sure if you know what you need, especially if you're still taking business cards from dippy blondes who just want to drool over your gold wings.

"Right.  You've done so well for yourself," I comment sweetly.  He just gives me a look that says _smartass_.

*********

Mac's upset with me, I can tell.  I followed her from McMurphy's to her place, watching as she exited her vehicle without a word.  Opened the door to her building, without a word.  Marched into the elevator, without a word; ascended to her floor, without a word; and marched down to her door and opened it, without a word.

Mac has always wielded silence like an earth-shattering scream.  It can get so deafening that I just wish she really would yell at me, or rip my arm off and beat me with it, if it will just dissipate that smothering quiet.

Sometimes if I provoke her, I can get some results, but generally she retreats further back into her protective shell and I'm forced to just wait out the storm, and hope it will pass quickly (and not leave any permanent damage).  

But after the day I've had, some little voice nags my conscience and reminds me that I've flown in hurricane-type weather and that this is nothing I can't handle.  For some reason only known to god, I listen to it.

"All right, Mac, what's up?"

She turns and stares at me coolly.

"Why the silent treatment?"

"Why?" she echoes.  That voice is now telling me to shut up, but it's too late.  I'm on autopilot now.

"Yeah.  What did I do?"  

"What did you do?" she repeats incredulously.  Then all her fire seems to go out, and she replies bitterly, "Nothing, Harm.  You did nothing.  Except be yourself."

"Is that the problem?"

"I don't—no.  Never mind.  I'm just overreacting.  Would you like something to drink?  I have water, tea—"

"Mac.  Talk to me.  Something's bothering you, and I want to know what it is."  

She stops mid-stride, just a few feet from the doorway to her kitchen.  "Why did you take her card?"

"Who?  Christine's?"

"Caroline.  And, yes, who else?"

"Well, what did you expect me to do?  I can't just rip it up there right in front of her face.  I have to be polite, Mac."

"I know.  I know.  It's stupid.  I'm sorry I brought it up," she says, and resumes her trek to the kitchen.  

"Maaaac," I say, following.  

"No.  Just forget, Harm.  I don't know why I'm so upset over it."

"Do you think I'm not serious about you?  About developing this relationship?"  Somehow those words slip past my lips without the effort I would have normally associated with such statements.  We are knee-deep in serious conversation, something that I, as Mac well knows, avoid at all costs.

She hesitates, which gives me my answer, and it feels like a slap in the face.  What am I doing?  What are we doing?  Apparently wasting each other's time.

"I think you do know what you want," she finally utters softly.  "I think, maybe, you kind of want…me," she whispers hopefully, and it's one more twist of the knife in my side.  

"Of course I want you," I say, unable to keep the censure from my voice.  "You think whatever-her-name-is can hold a candle to my marine?"

"_Your_ marine?"

"Yes.  _My_ marine," I state defiantly, knowing I could end up on the kitchen floor if I'm not careful how I back out of here.  This is Mac we're talking about, who doesn't particularly care to be someone's property, as the debacle with Brumby (and, I suppose, me) proved.  

"If I'm _your_ marine, does that make you _my_ sailor?" she asks with the barest hint of a smile.

"Yes, I suppose it does, if we're going by that reckoning."

"Hmm.  And you don't have a problem being property of the U.S. Marine Corps?"  I reach into my inside breast pocket and pull out the architect's card.  I look at it for a moment then rip it up.

"Nope."  Mac's eyebrows are arched in surprise.  "So long as I'm just property of a certain marine lieutenant colonel, and not, say, a gunny or something.

"No one else in the Corps would want you."

"Well, gee, thanks, Mac.  How do _you_, as a vaulted member of the Marine Corps, explain your attachment to me?"

"Charity case."  I hold a hand to my heart in mock pain, and toss the pieces of what's-her-name's business card on the counter.

"Is that so?" She nods, her dark chocolaty eyes swimming.  "Are we okay?"  I ask, taking a step closer.  I wrap my arms around her gently and she returns the gesture with a much tighter embrace.

"Yeah.  I just wish you weren't so damn nice and gentlemanly."

"Sorry.  I'll try to work on that."  

She lets out a small laugh.  "Please don't stop being you.  I know what I said, but the charming, flirty, cocky flyboy is part of the Harmon Rabb I fell—" she stops suddenly, as does my breath, as I wait for her to finish her sentence, "—for."  

Damn.  She does admit falling for me, though.  And really, when one says they fall for someone, doesn't that mean they fall in love with that person?  She rests her cheek against my chest, and I rest my chin on the top of her head as I ponder this.

"Just, sometimes, I don't think you realize how…appealing you are to the opposite sex with all that charm and arrogance and gold wings and that smile and those looks.  You just kind of go on autopilot, and it can be a little…unnerving I guess for other people."

"Just how appealing am I?"

"Harm," she warns.  

"Sorry."  Cool the hormones, Rabb.  This is a serious conversation we're trying to have.   "I never really paid attention to it, Mac.  It's just…how I act.  It's not really flirting, not to me anyway.  I didn't really realize how it might come across to you.  I'm sorry, Mac."

"I know.  I know you don't do it on purpose, Harm.  It's just…you."

Obviously not a better part of me.

"I'll try to work on it," I promise, which is apparently the right thing to say in this situation (not that I didn't mean it) because Mac pulls away slightly and fixes me with another small but genuine smile and a nice peck on the lips.

"Do you want something to drink?"

"No, I don't want something to drink," I reply, glad to resolve this matter.

"Do you want something to eat?"

"No, I don't want something to eat."

"Well, is there anything you _do_ want?" she asks with a grin.

You, I think.  I want you.  I stare into her eyes intensely, trying to will the appropriate response from their black abyss.  Somehow, she's suddenly flush against me, with my arms clasped tightly around her waist, and one of her arms locked around my shoulder and neck, while her other hand rubs gently at my cheek.

"Why don't you spend the night, Harm?"  I want to.  God, how I want to.  Even if it was only to fall asleep next to her and wake up in her arms.

 "Can't," I answer miserably.  "Bud's trial.  I have some documents at home I need to look at, and I'll need to get up early."  

"Okay," she answers, obviously disappointed.  "Some other time.  We still have our weekend to reschedule," she adds in an attempt to brighten our moods.

"Hey," I say, inspiration striking (about time), "how 'bout you come home with me and stay the night.  I won't be much for entertainment—I really do need to look over some things for Bud's trial, but—"

"What about Jingo?  I shouldn't leave him.  He's still not doing really well."  

"He's invited, too."

"Really?"  

"Yeah, come on, Marine," I lean down and plant a kiss on her mouth, and whisper huskily, "spend the night with me."

*********

Jingo and I watch Harm move around his apartment from the warm comfort of his bedroom.  Both of us are curled up in our respective beds, me under the soft, cool sheets and warm blankets of Harm's large bed, and Jingo from his fuzzy, fur-infested dog bed which Harm let me bring over.

Harm pops his head up the stairs.  "You guys comfy?"

I nod and Jingo thumps his tail twice.

"Okay.  Here, I better give you a kiss goodnight, marine."  He leans down and captures my mouth, and I grab hold of his tie.  He's still completely dressed in his uniform, right down to his shoes and uniform jacket, even at 2300 hours.  

"You're not…?" I ask worriedly, wondering if he's going to camp out on the couch again.  

"It's probably going to be a while before I come to bed."  He kisses me again, and removes my hand from his tie.  "But I plan to eventually, so pick a side, marine."  He moves to the corner of his room, near the shower wall, and squats down to pat Jingo on his head, before straightening again.  He hits a switch on his way out and the apartment is blanketed in darkness.  After a moment, the light on his desk lamp switches on, and I see him remove his tie and shrug out of his jacket.

My fingers ache to assist.  To slowly pop each button from its hole, all the way down his shirt, to the button of his pants.  And then the zipper…I heave a big sigh of disappointment.

"Suck it up, Marine," a voice answers wryly.


	21. Chapter TwentyOne

She is goddamn beautiful.  I take a sip of my coffee and just marvel at the beauty before me, wrapped up in the warmth of my bed.  Jingo watches me watch his mistress, his manner perky, courtesy of his morning walk in the brisk weather we're having.

Not only have I walked the dog, but I've also showered, put on the coffee, and am damn near dressed for work, and she's still lying peacefully in bed.  I didn't have the heart to disturb her, to wake her at what would probably be her normal wake-up time.  I barely had the heart to get out of bed myself, not when I was spooned around her soft, warm body.  And dead tired from only three hours sleep.

Now, though, if I don't wake her she's liable to be late (well, late for Mac, which is still early for most everyone else—especially me).  How does one wake a smart, sexy, sassy marine?

Very carefully, Commander.

Ah, throw caution to the wind, Hammer.  I set my coffee mug on the nightstand and creep slowly across the bed towards her.   

"Mac. . . " I whisper.  She roles towards me, onto her side, a groggy but contented-sounding "hmm?" escaping past her puffy lips.  

"Mac. . . " I say a little louder, deciding that luscious looking earlobe should be my first venue.  I latch onto it and an arm automatically reaches out to wrap itself around my neck.  Is she dreaming or am I?  I could have swore _I_ got up this morning.

Her slender, graceful neck has always held some appeal to me, and I direct my lips accordingly.  "Mac. . ." I repeat, a slightly higher volume than before.  I trace her neck down to her collarbone, and I'm tempted to move a bit further south than that, but there's a good possibility that the arm slung casually around my neck might tighten to a chokehold if I do, so I decide to head north.  

To those puffy, inviting lips.  Lips that are just begging to be kissed.  I can't refuse them.  She gently roles onto her back and I follow, locked into her two-armed embrace, as one hand slides slowly down my back and up, surreptitiously working my white T-shirt out of the waistband of my pants, while the other slips through my damp hair, holding my mouth firm against hers.

"Sarah," I whisper when I get a breath, and my sleeping beauty opens her eyes. 

"Good morning," she murmurs with a restful smile.

"Morning.  Time to get up, Marine."

"Hmm. . . I don't think so," she decides, pulling me closer, so that I'm lying on top of her, propped up on my elbows so as not to crush her.  Her mouth meets mine, and I debate the merits of remaining here, in her arms, for the rest of the day.

But I made a promise to myself about Bud.  I'm not going to let him down.  There's a good probability that I could have helped him when he asked for it, but I let my emotions about Sarah distract me from work, and I'm not going to allow that to happen now.  

"Mmmm—no," I say, finally breaking away.  Well, one more kiss won't . . . shouldn't have done that, Commander.  Her mouth opens up under mine, and now I debate the merits of both of us arriving a bit late for work.  It would be just a _tad_ bit incriminating, I think, but I also think I've gotten a bit paranoid about our whole burgeoning relationship.  

Snap to, Commander, you've got work to do.  I wrench myself away—completely away—with a groan.  "I think that's enough of that this morning.  Come on, let's go, up and at 'em, Colonel,"

"Enough of what?" she ask innocently.  "I certainly haven't got my fill."

I have _got_ to turn the heat down in here.  Or take a cold shower.  Actually, that would probably be most effective.

"You're going to be late."  

"So?"  She inches toward me with catlike grace, and I know I should move out of her reach, but my brain seems to have lost contact with all points out of its immediate proximity.  

"Shower's all yours," I manage to say.

"You don't want to share?"

"I've already had mine this morning."

"You look like you could use another."

"I've got to get to the office early, remember?"

"Shame," she breathes huskily, trailing those puffy lips along my jaw.

Tell me about it.  

"What time is it now?"

"You don't know?" I ask incredulously.  "What happened to your internal clock?"

She flushes, and then plants a kiss on my lips, that deepens quickly.  "That's what happened."

"Oh, _really_?"  Score one for Rabb.  Current tally: Mackenzie 196, Rabb 2.  Maybe 3.  There is my smile after all.

"It's ten after seven."

"What?!"  She pulls away quickly and whips her head around to look at the clock behind her.  "Why did you let me sleep so late?"

"Well, it's not everyday I have a beautiful marine asleep in my bed.  I just wanted to admire the view."

"I've got to do my hair, my makeup, I need to walk Jingo. . . " she continues, and I don't think she's heard me.  "Thank god I thought to bring my uniform over."

That was actually at my suggestion, that way she wouldn't have to get up early and go back to her apartment.

"I've already walked Jingo."  She stops in mid-yank, her uniform swinging on the rod in my closet.

"What time did you come to bed?" she asks curiously.

"A little bit after three, I think."

"What time did you get up?"

"A little after six, I think.  After my alarm went off."

"I slept through the alarm?" she asks in amazement.  Yup, those vaulted marine reflexes and ready-at-a-moment's-notice training are obviously slipping.  I decide not to point this out, though.  I need to be alive in order to help Bud.

"I need to get rolling, Mac.  I've got to talk to Bud before court."

She nods absently, apparently still in awe over her own fatigue.  I retuck my T-shirt and grab my blouse and tie and put them on.  "There's some coffee for you.  Just remember to turn the pot off before you leave.  And lock up.  You've got a key right?"  

This is a rhetorical question, as I know she keeps one on her key ring, next to hers.  I finish with my uniform, and pack up my briefcase.  Mac has regained her equilibrium and is now a blur of activity in my bedroom, hastily accumulating all items she'll need to get dressed and ready for work.  

"I'll see you at work, Mac," I call, grabbing my cover off the shelf next to the door, patting my pants pockets to confirm I have my keys, and opening the door with my unburdened hand.  

"Wait!  Wait."  She scurries out and screeches to a halt in front of me.  Ah, a goodbye kiss.  I like this new progression in our relationship.  "Thanks, Harm."  She smiles widely.

"Your welcome, Mac."  I pop another kiss on her cheek.  "See you at work."

*********

Da dee dum dum dum, la da dee . . . 

I love someone in the (ba boom) navy . . . 

Hmm . . . maybe I should put "U.S." in there . . . 

"U.S." would make it flow better.

"U.S." before the ba boom or after?  Or get rid of the ba boom?

My problem is I don't know any songs for sailors beyond "Anchor's Away" (and why should I—I'm a marine), and certainly not any love songs for sailors.  The closest one I know is that one that goes _Blue, Navy blue, I'm as blue as I can be, 'cause my steady boy said 'ship ahoy!' and joined the Nay-ay-vee_.

Crap!  I slam on the brakes and manage, thanks to my sports car's sporty brakes to stop in time before I plow into a Mazda.  Pay attention to traffic, MacKenzie.  

Unfortunately, once my mind has fixated on sailors—and particularly one JAG commander—my attention to traffic wanes a bit more than it should.  He really is one incredible squid.

He can be such a cocky, arrogant, insensitive jerk and then other times . . . he can be so sweet, considerate, charming, and caring—a side he often keeps under wraps.  Walking Jingo, letting me sleep in.  Kissing me awake like some scene in _Sleeping Beauty_.  An R-rated _Sleeping Beauty_ maybe, but I'm certainly not going to fault him for it.  

I float into JAG ops and into my office, still dizzy from my marvelous morning, and not caring about the curious looks I'm receiving for arriving past my usual time.  I note with a tinge of disappointment Harm's empty office.  Oh, well, he said he had to talk with Bud, and if I saw him now I'd probably do something incriminating, like press him up against a file cabinet and, ahem, wrinkle his uniform a bit.

Which reminds me, I have a weekend away with Harm to plan.  Got my latest issue of Victoria's Secret to help me with the wardrobe matters.  I will, of course, _have_ to bring that white little number he loves so much.  What else?  I may have to break out the gold card and invest in some serious, heart-stopping, expensive lingerie.  And maybe those Manolo Blahniks heels I saw.  They were kind of expensive, though.  _Really_ expensive.  But, combine them with a jaw-dropping dress over equally jaw-dropping negligee, with a smolderingly handsome, awestruck, slightly desperate, Harmon Rabb, Jr. and the results should make the effort a bargain.   

Of course, if I go to all that expense, it's kind of wasted in an isolated cabin in the Smoky Mountains.  Well, maybe not the lingerie.  Of course, I could prepare us a romantic dinner, and get all dressed up, but I'm not a very good cook—not like Harm—and I want everything to be perfect.  And kind of a surprise.  I mean, we are going away for the sole purpose of having a romantic weekend together, but not everything has to be scripted.  

So, we may have to pick a new location for our little getaway.  So long as it's far away from JAG, nobody knows where we are, and we can unplug the phone.  

So . . . 

Hmm . . . what about New York, or something?  That's kind of romantic.  Oooh, maybe Boston.  Nantucket Island.  

You may have to break out the platinum card, MacKenzie.  

What if the weather gets bad, though, and we're stuck on the island?  (Oh, that would be a damn shame, MacKenzie.  Golly, what would you and Harm do?  _HMMM_)  But if we can't make it to JAG on—

"Colonel?  Just who I was looking for," Sturgis breaks into my musings.

"Ah, yes, uh—" come on, MacKenzie, focus –"what can I do for you Sturgis?"  

"I need a favor."

*********

I stare in disbelief, first at Bud, then Sturgis, and then behind me at the doors to the courtroom, which part and indeed reveal Lt. Colonel Sarah MacKenzie.

Mac?  My Mac?

This is unbelievable.  Even worse, looking at her expression, I can tell I'm not going to like what she has to say.

"Your Honor, the defense objects to counsel's expert witness," I state, still not believing my eyes.  I remind counsel that their expert witness was one Commander Leslie Stickley, not the marine I woke up with.  I can't believe she did this.  Prosecution knows their expert witness is a good friend of the accused, and anything she may say regarding the conduct of the accused, especially anything critical, is going to stick with the judge.  

I try again to object, but Judge Blakely overrules and I exchange a look with Bud as Sturgis swears Mac in.  Just as I thought, Sturgis starts establishing expert's relationship with the accused.  

When she finally gives her answer in regards to Bud's conduct, I have to look away.  Oh, God, this is going to kill us.

Hasn't she ever had an off day?  I mean, what about that time . . . wait a sec . . .

"Commander, would you prefer that recess now?"

"No, your Honor."  There may be a ray of light here for our defense.  "Colonel, did you once receive oral surgery the morning of a trial?"  Sturgis calls for an objection, as I figured he would.  Hey, he brought in this expert witness, and therefore opened her up to this line of questioning.  Sorry if she's well known to the defense counsel as well as the defendant.  This could be your loss, Sturgis.

After Colonel Blakely overrules Sturgis's protest and administers a warning to me (an unnecessary one, I think), I continue.  "Please, Colonel, answer the question."

"I had a wisdom tooth pulled."  

"Did you receive anesthetic?"

"Local."

"Afterwards, did you come straight to court?"

"That's right."

"Were you feeling a little bit woozy that morning?"  The answer to this I well know, as I had to walk her from the stairs to a bench in the hallway after she got particularly nauseous.  I had told her to take a sick day, or at least come in in the afternoon—I could handle her morning court case, or she could request a continuance.  But stubborn marine she is she didn't listen.

Skilled marine she is, she bypassed that attempt at discrediting like any expert witness would.  Great.  Thank you, Mac.  You might just single-handedly have handed Bud his death sentence.  

Unbelievable.  And I'm in love with this woman?

And how is that going to look to Bud when he's in Leavenworth and I'm bedding down with the person whose testimony convicted him?

And where is she, anyway?  Colonel Blakely recessed us five minutes ago for lunch and she disappeared.

"Commander?"

Ah, the captain.  Right on schedule.  And there's the admiral getting ready for lunch.  Perfect.  

"Uh, sir?"  I indicate I'd like to speak to the admiral privately, noticing out of the corner of my eye the admiral catching Sturgis's eye, an inquisitive look on their faces.  

I spin my little yarn about scheduling the luncheon with the captain and no longer able to keep it.  He looks like he's buying it.  Sturgis, you lost this battle.  My phone buzzes and I step over and punch the speakerphone button, brushing aside a yellow post-it in the way.

"Commander?  I just wanted to confirm the reservation—that's the admiral and Captain Fryar for lunch?"

_Ohhh shiiiiit._  Cringing, I turn back to the admiral, who definitely looks pissed off.

"My office **_now_**!"

I follow the perfunctory two steps behind, stopping when he gestures to Sturgis, "Turner.  Join the Caravan."  Sturgis looks quizzically at me, as the admiral informs Captain Fryar it's just going to be a bit longer. 

"Sorry, ma'am," I add.

We march into the office and wait for the inevitable explosion.

"Since when did my office become a production of _Hello, Dolly_?"

"It's about a matchmaker," I offer, knowing Sturgis has an aversion to most musicals and particularly anything featuring Barbara Streisand.

"You think I live under a rock?" he retorts.  Hmm, Bobbi must be working on him.  Sucker.  

"Lock it up!" The admiral barks.  We snap to and fall silent.

"Commander," the admiral addresses Sturgis, "were you trying to fix me up with that architect the other night?"

Sturgis wisely does what anybody would in this situation and invokes his Fifth Amendment rights.  That doesn't deter the admiral, though.

"I should be angry, but I am so damn disgusted," the admiral rants, glaring at both of us in turn, before resuming his outburst.  The whole tirade is only slightly less painful than I imagined it would be—after all, both Sturgis and I are still in the employ of the United States Navy, and still on the JAG headquarters roster.

For now.  He may ship us out after Bud's trial though.

Speaking of Bud.

*********

I notice Harriet move away, and I decide it's now or never.  Bud says something to Harm as soon as she's out of earshot, and Harm indicates his agreement.  I can only imagine their topic of conversation.  Basing my assumption on the uninviting look I receive from Harm, I guess I'm right.  

"I'm so sorry, Bud.  I was hoping to stay out of it."

"Can't fault you for expressing your opinion, ma'am," Bud says, equable as ever.  Bud never ceases to amaze me.  He's matured into a fine officer and lawyer.

"**_I_** can if it's the wrong one."  Harm, on the other hand, has cultivated the fine art of holding petty grudges against the partner that doesn't see things _exactly_ as he does in his years as a JAG attorney.  "Why didn't you tell us?" he asks peevishly.

"I went looking for you, Harm.  I even left a note on your desk."  His lips twist slightly, and I know that look.  He's irked and now I may have taken away his excuse to hold onto his anger.  Good.  Serves him right for being so petty.  It's not like I enjoyed giving potentially devastating testimony about my friend.  And he should damn well know that.

"How is it that Sturgis knew how you were feeling?" He demands.  Before I can respond, Bud answers.

"Well, he sensed it in her attitude, same as I did."  That astute observation won't pacify Harm.  I feel my blood pressure rise as I start defending my conclusions, and Harm, ever the persistent attorney, cross-examines and belittles each statement.

"Why didn't you just say 'no'?"  

Argghh.  Why does he have to get so bent out of shape about these things?  He says _I'm_ the one who can't separate "work" from "personal"?  Please, the only reason he's so upset is because he always thinks if I don't see things his way, it's a slight to him, or a mark on my character.  I was just doing my job.  There wasn't anything I could do—otherwise I would have!  Bud, having years of experience with our temperaments and battles, in and out of the courtroom, cuts in before Harm and I really get aggravated.  

"Could we just move on and assume we'll get through this?" he asks, looking from me to Harm.

I purse my lips.  _I'm_ not the one making such a big deal out of this.  

"Can we?" I ask Harm pointedly.

"We're going to have to," he admits grudgingly, arms crossed over his chest.

"Would you like to be apart of the team ma'am?" Bud offers.  

"I just testified against you," I remind him, touched he would want to include me after I nearly sunk him with my testimony.  Harm seems a little surprised, too.  He ought to take notes.

"Would this be okay with you?" I prompt sweetly.

He gives a small nod in which most of his annoyance drains away.  "Yeah, in fact I have your first assignment: help us counteract the effect of that last witness."

He flashes a small smirk.

Smartass.

*********

"What a week," I sigh as I flop down onto the couch.  I loosen my tie and wish for a beer to magically appear in my hand.  Instead, Jingo magically appears and places his head on my thigh.

"Hey, Jingo," I say, patting him on the head.  His mistress is banging some pans around in her kitchen.  She seems to have forgiven me for, as she terms it, "my tyrannical defense attorney side."

I did apologize for reaming her out about her testimony.  I know she was just doing her job.  I'm still a little irked about the whole thing, though.  No since dwelling on it, as it will just fester between us until it blows up.  And I suppose it is a bit petty.

"Did you say something?" Mac asks, sticking her head out the swinging door between her kitchen and living room.

"No.  You got anything to drink?"

"Yeah, I've got water, tea, coke, mountain dew, coffee."

"Tea would be good."  Spiked with a couple shots of hard liquor, but obviously it wouldn't do to mention this.

"Coming right up."

"What's on the menu, tonight, Mac?"  

I wait for a reply and don't receive one.  "We could just order in, if you'd like, Mac.  We don't have to do anything big."  Still no response.  It's then I realize it's awfully quiet in the next room.

"Mac?"

I brush Jingo aside and get up from the couch and move uncertainly towards the kitchen.

"Mac?" I call again.  I'm starting to get really nervous.  Why isn't she answering?  I place my palm against the door and push it slowly open.

TBC . . . 


	22. Chapter Twentytwo

The brochure advertises cozy looking bed and breakfasts, styled in the Cape Cod architecture and design so popular along the eastern seaboard.  The island has plenty of quaint little shops and intimate restaurants, but I can't help but wonder if Harm and I are ready for this.  I mean, if we go someplace like Nantucket Island we're talking a big deal.  This is not some two-, three-hour drive into the mountains to reach some rustic cabin in the hills.  If Harm and I go, if we do this, we're talking a trip to Dulles to catch a plane to Boston, and then another plane to the island.  

And then, beautiful Nantucket Island is a tourist trap so everything there is priced accordingly.  Lodging, food, transportation.  Even a weekend could start to add up.  And there are a few things I would like to get in preparation if we were to go.  Like a new dress, or skirt and blouse, or slacks, or _something_.  I don't want to just wear the same old stuff he always sees me in.  I'd like to do something special for him, for us, and get decked out.  Let him know what he's been missing for six years and that he should take this opportunity to thank his lucky stars and show me how much it means to him.

Are we ready for something like that?  I mean, we've just gone from simple getaway to full-blown, _planned_, romantic weekend.  We're talking about spending some major dollars to be alone together.  Airfare alone is going to be around $300 per person.  

Are economical concerns the only reason why, now, going away together seems to be such a huge investment?

And, I have to consider, we are on an _island_.  If the weather turns bad, or even worse, if we have a fight, we're stuck there until we either work it out, or we can find—

Two arms suddenly hook around me, and I ram my elbow back instinctively.

"Ooof!"

I pivot around and see Harm doubled over, clutching his abdomen.

"Harm!" I gasp in utter horror.  What did I do, what did I _do_?!  

I just injured my best friend and partner, and boyfriend, and what, one day, could have been my husband and father of my children.  What a way to show a guy you care, MacKenzie—letting have a taste of his own blood.

"Oh, Harm!  I'm so sorry.  I didn't realize it was you—I mean, I didn't think.  You startled me—oh!  Oh, are you okay?  Say something, Harm!"

A wheeze is my only response.

Oh crap, oh crap, oh CRAP!  Okay, _think_, MacKenzie.  You are a trained marine.  

Oh, obviously—you almost killed Harm with your finely honed reflexes.  

Harm utters a raspy groan and attempts to right himself.

"If you were . . . still pissed . . . about me . . . reaming you out, you could . . . have just said . . . something.  You didn't have . . . to resort . . . to outright violence."

Well, at least he's making jokes.  

"Oh, God," he groans.  He's still flushed in the face, and sounds winded.  "I'm just going to," he pauses to pant for a second then continues, "sit down—in there—" he points to the living room "—for a moment, and I think I'll call it a day and go home."

"Harm . . . "

He shakes his head slightly in a gesture that indicates he's really not in a mood to have a discussion about anything.  

"I'm so sorry, Harm," I say again, helplessly.  "Here, let me help you."

"No, no.  It's . . . okay, Mac."  He lets out a hollow laugh.  "And here I was thinking the other day your vaulted marine reflexes were slipping."

I know he's trying to ease my pain, and his, but I feel so incredibly stupid and sorry right now that I can't help the tears that spring to my eyes.  Why do the men I date always end up getting hurt because of me?

"Well, serves you right for doubting the Corps," I offer with a sniffle, but my joke falls flat before me.

With his hand still clutched around his middle he turns towards the door.  "Help me to the couch, marine."

I hurry to his side and slip an arm around his waist, supporting him.  "I'm so sorry, Harm.  You just surprised me and I reacted without thinking—I forgot you were here—"

"I called your name several times.  You never—oof—answered."

"I didn't hear you.  I was thinking about some things.  Here we are."  We turn slowly, so that our backs are to the sofa.  "Gently," I say, as Harm gingerly eases down onto the cushion.  He gives me a look that plainly says 'you don't have to tell _me_.'  "Lie down."  I arrange the pillows so he'll be more comfortable.

"Ahhggghh . . . " he half groans and sighs.  He smiles weakly.  "That'll teach me to sneak up on marines." 

I offer a weak smile of my own, "Yeah, you should know better anyway.  Harm, maybe we should get you to the doctor."

"NO, no," he answers forcibly.  "I'm okay.  You just knocked the wind out of me, that's all."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah.  Just give me a minute to recover."

"Whew.  Thank goodness I didn't hit you that hard."

"Not that hard?" he repeats, still gasping.  "I think your elbow actually touched my spine.  Any lower, marine, and _I_ wouldn't be the father of your children."

A giggle escapes despite myself.  He raises an eyebrow, and I quickly raise a hand to my mouth to cover my smile.  "It's not funny," I say quickly, shaking my head, attempting to get my laughter under control but the look he's giving me right now is making it difficult.  

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I say, not sure if I'm apologizing for elbowing him in the stomach, or because I'm laughing about it now.

"Well, I guess I should have known it would be too much to hope for some womanly sympathy—especially from the femme fatale responsible for this."  He sighs theatrically and stares at the ceiling.  Then his eyes flicker to mine to see whether I'm buying this performance, and I am relieved and overjoyed to see the familiar warmth and good-natured teasing in their depths.  

I giggle again and tug at the arm still clamped over his stomach.  "Harm," I say, calming down, "let me have a look."

"A look at what?" He asks nervously.

"Your stomach.  I want to see if there's any bruising.  Come on," I tug again on the resistant arm.

"I'm fine, Mac."  As if to prove his point, he struggles to a sitting position, unable to refrain from groaning and moaning from the pain and exertion.  He may be sitting before me, but the whole effort just reinforced my conclusions that he's not as okay as he would like me to believe.

I reach for his shirt collar and start undoing his buttons.

"What are you doing?" he asks, more than a little concerned.  

"I'm not going to be satisfied unless I see for myself."

He chuckles nervously.  "A little forward there, aren't you, marine?"

"No."  Then I realize what he's implying and feel my cheeks warm.  I don't dare look up at him.  Instead, I just concentrate on relieving my battered partner of his clothes.  I get his blouse undone and pull it, along with his T-shirt, up, but his pants still block a good portion of the area I want to see.  Thank God I didn't say that out loud.  I reach, with trembling hands, for his belt, and as soon as it's out of the way, I start for the button to his slacks.  I remember not too long ago wanting to do this, but the reason for it then was quite different than the one fueling me on now.  

I don't know why this is . . . getting to me.  I've seen Harm undressed before.  He wears plain white boxers admirably.  But then again, I've never _undressed_ Harm before and it's a little unnerving with his eyes on me, and without the haze of passion to fog the senses.

A large hand covers mine, and I almost sigh in relief when he pulls my hand away.  He struggles to stand, and quickly loosens his pants and slides the waistband of his boxers down, out of the way, so I have a good view of the area in question—his abdomen—but nothing else.

"I don't see any bruising," I murmur.  I'm ashamed to say I'm not really looking too hard.  The sight of his strong abs and dark chest hair has me mesmerized.  He's gotten a bit thicker around the middle with age, but the well-defined muscles of his torso are still apparent despite the years and the relative inactivity since his crash last May.

My, oh, my, is he a fine specimen.

Hummina-hummina-hummina.  

I slide my hand over his stomach in a reverent caress before something jolts me back to reality.

Okay.  Stop drooling, MacKenzie.

"Does this hurt?"  I carefully prod the area with my fingers.

"No, not really," is the response, after a quick intake of breath.  I fix a hard stare at the stubborn man before me and find myself lost in that sea-green gaze.  

"Satisfied?"

"Huh?  Oh!"  I wrench my hand away.  For good measure I stuff it in my jeans pocket.  "Yeah, yeah.  I guess you're okay.  Um, you'll let me know if you start feeling . . . pain, or nauseous, or anything?"  I take one last sweeping look of his fine physique as he straightens his pants and shirt again.   

"You were wanting some tea.  You still feel like tea?  I'll get you some tea." I slip into the kitchen without waiting for an answer.  

Wow.  I always suspected it.  I always knew.  But, damn, that man has one incredible body.

*********

I plop down onto the couch as soon as the swinging door swings closed.  I let out a breath I've been holding—or rather, I've been unable to expel—since razor-sharp elbows in there nailed me.  If I wasn't feeling a little bit woozy, I have to say I would have enjoyed that little inspection a lot more.  

I hear her clamoring about in the kitchen, cupboards opening, water running, pans banging, and I hope it will keep her occupied for a few minutes at least while I quietly bleed.

Okay, so maybe it isn't _quite_ that bad, but I have a newfound respect for her defense abilities.  I massage the point of impact, probing the area for—I don't know, any distended organs—but I seem to be okay.

That determined, I lean my head back and close my eyes.  Why the reaction from Mac, anyway?  She only whips out the kung fu when she feels threatened, attacked, or if she's startled when she's already keyed up about something.  All she was doing was looking at something on the counter.  A magazine, if I remember correctly.

She didn't even hear me when I called her name.  She said she was thinking.  Obviously some deep thoughts for her to tune out everything around her.  Something's up.  Should I press her about it?  Maybe she is still angry about the way I handled her testimony at Bud's trial.  

Or it could be something else.  Something worse.  

Crap, what else have I done that may have upset her?  Well, there was that thing with Caroline, but I thought we talked about that—that things were okay.  What else?

She was also upset about my matchmaking efforts—particularly when it meant Ms. Cavanaugh was on the receiving end of the wrath that should have been reserved for Sturgis and I only.  Mac made sure that I knew she held the admiral and I equally accountable.  She also made sure that I remembered she had warned me about getting involved in Sturgis's scheme, in the first place.

Beyond that, I'm not sure what else I could have done to upset her.  There is the hope that whatever it is that's bothering her has nothing to do with me.  And, of course, there is also the hope that _nothing_ is bothering her.

"Hey Mac?" I venture, but I swear to myself that this is as far as I'm going to go with it.  If she doesn't answer, I'm just going to wait here on the couch no matter what.

"Mac?" Well, it doesn't hurt (actually, it kind of does, as it flexes my abdominal muscles) to yell a little louder.

"Yeah?" she appears a breathless moment later, all concern and empathy.  I decide I should probably move around—that unfortunately means getting up—before she starts fussing over me again.

I stand without too much effort and follow her into the kitchen, keeping a wary eye on her.  She notices my glance and gives me an exasperated look.  Hey, you can't be too careful around a marine.

I make a cursory glance of her kitchen and notice a kettle brewing on the stove (my tea, presumably), a Lipton Green Tea box beside it, and a brochure with a few pamphlets scattered around it by the barstools.  I make a move towards the latter when she notices my heading and whisks the items away.

_Uh-huh_.  Interesting.  

"Whatcha reading, Mac?" I ask casually.  

"Oh, nothing, really.  Just looking at a few things."  Yeah, right.  I'm expected to believe this?  I got hit in the stomach, Mac, not my head.

"Oh, well, what are you looking at?" I stare at her intently, invoking my best investigative glower.  

"Oh, just a brochure, uh, and a couple pamphlets about, er, eh, architecture."

"Can I see?"

"It's kind of boring, really.  I'm sure you'd ra—"

"I could use something to take my mind off this ache."  A low blow, I know, but whatever is in that brochure is worth flaunting my injury and making Mac feel guilty.  I pat my stomach and make sure to smile apologetically.  

Slowly, she pulls the brochures and pamphlets out from behind her and clutches them to her chest.  I can make out _Hist_ and _ucke_ from one of the covers.  I hold out my hand eagerly.

"Um, before I let you look at them, maybe I should, um, explain, um . . ."  Explain?  I raise an eyebrow and wait for her to continue.

"See I, uh, I got to thinking, you know, about our weekend getaway, and I thought—well, for one, I thought given everything that's happened, the Smoky Mountains might not be far enough away."  I chuckle softly in agreement.  "And, uh, two, I just got to thinking that wouldn't it be nice to really . . . go someplace romantic."

"Would you rather spend a weekend in Jamestown?" I ask, wondering how architecture fits into all this.

"Actually, I was kind of thinking Nantucket."  The teakettle sounds and she dumps the brochures in my laps and hurries to the stove—where her back is conveniently to me.

I flip through the brochures, noticing of the five she has, four have to do with Nantucket Island, and the other one, New York City.  The four pertaining to the island all describe lodging, events, restaurants and shops.  There's also an internet printout with airfare information.

I glance at her, but her back is still to me as she carefully pours steaming water into a mug.  I look through the pamphlets and brochures and I can see the appeal of the place—and the widespread Cape Cod design.  

"Looks nice," I agree.  "A couple nice romantic dinners, maybe a little time spent exploring the shops . . . " or not, I think, " . . . a nice cozy little inn . . . perfect for a little atmosphere," I hint suggestively, and I see a smile adorn her face.  

"Maybe," she concurs after a moment.  "It just . . . "

"What?"  I slide off the stool and closer to her, reasonably safe in the assumption she won't try any more karate moves on me.

"Well . . . I mean for one thing, it's a lot of money.  I mean airfare, lodging, meals, transportation . . . it all starts to add up."

"Well, you're worth it," I reply.  For an instant her eyes lock onto mine, all brown and watery and vulnerable, with a spark of delight visible deep in their depths.  Why does she always seem so surprised when I compliment her?  "But I suspect that's not the real reason you're hesitant."

She bites her lower lip as she looks down at my tea.

"I—you don't think it's—such a big step?" 

Uh-oh.  Best to tread lightly, Rabb.

"Well, we were planning to spend a weekend in a cabin in the mountains.  What's a weekend on an island in an inn?"

"Yeah, but Harm we were planning on driving to the mountains and then just renting a cabin."

"Yes," I confirm.  I'm not sure what her point is here.

"Don't you see?"  

I hate these kinds of questions.  I swear only women think these up.  If you answer "yes" you run the risk of them calling you on it, and if you answer "no" you run the even greater risk of them holding that ignorance against you.  Since I can't think up a good response, I stick with honesty, and pray it won't be the source of yet another rift between Mac and I.  "Um, no, I guess I don't, Mac."

She places my spoon on the counter with a loud clatter and shifts her weight to one hip.  

"It's a totally different scenario, Harm!"

Ooookay.

"How so, exactly?"

"Well . . . for one thing . . . " she picks up my spoon again and starts stirring.  "For one thing . . . we have to fly," she finishes, as though the thought just occurs to her.

"Yes.  It's too far to drive in a weekend."  Is she worried about the plane ride?  As long as it's not a tomcat she does fine flying.

"Exactly."

Okay, maybe she did clobber me on the head, or perhaps my injuries are far more severe than previously thought, because I am just not getting this.

"Mac, why don't you tell me what's really bothering you."  I take another seat on the barstool, and she shifts her weight to her other hip before answering.

"I don't know," she says quietly.  "It just seems to be a big deal now.  I can't explain it."

"Big deal how?  We were already planning to go away together.  This is just a different location."  Then it hits me.  "Do you still want to go away together?"

"Yeah," she says after a moment.  "I do.  It just seems . . . " she looks at me and I nod for her to continue, "It just seems that if we go to Nantucket that we're really taking a big step.  That we're saying something here.  That we're, you know, committed or something.  I don't know how else to explain it.  It's just different than some weekend special we had planned in the mountains.  It's stupid, never mind, never mind.  Here's your tea."  She sets it before me and hauls out of the kitchen.

"Mac!"  I grab my tea and hustle after her.  I catch her just before she disappears into her bedroom.  Jingo's standing by the door, looking nervously between us, while Sarah wrings her hands together, her back to me.

"If it's too fast, Mac, we can slow down.  I don't want to pressure you, Sarah," I say, shushing that insistent voice that reminds me _278 days_.  I'm not about to pressure her, unlike some people in her recent past.  I can respect her wishes.

"No.  No, I don't think it's too fast.  Well, maybe.  No.  No, there are definitely some days where I think it's not moving fast enough."  She smiles abashedly, and I have to smile as well at her pretty expression.  

"What is it, Mac?"  I take a step closer to her, setting my tea on one of her paleontology books.

"Think about it.  You and me, going away for the weekend.  A _romantic_ weekend."

"Stranger things have happened."

"If everything goes well, than, yeah, it's great," she says, and here is the crux of the problem, I think. 

"But . . . ?"

"But, if the weather turns bad or if—or if—"

"Or if we get into a fight?" I supply.

"Yeah," she whispers, "then we're stuck.  In the mountains we can just drive back."

"Not if the weather's bad," I point out.  "So, what you're worried about is 'us'?"

"Well, aren't you?" she asks a bit defensively.  

I shrug.  "We always fight, Mac.  Our bickering is one of the absolutes in life—after death and taxes.  The problem is not the fighting, but how we deal with the issues behind the argument.  If we do like we used to, just ignore it and hope it goes away, then yeah, we have reason to be concerned because it just festers and causes serious problems.  But if we talk about it—like now—and like we agreed to when we decided to go forward with our relationship, then I think things, yeah, might be a little bumpy at first, but eventually it will be okay."

She gapes at me, with her mouth slightly open, and I can't help feeling a little surprised myself.  I almost sound like I _might_ know something about serious relationships—at least learning something about real relationships.  My mother would be proud.  

So would the long list of girlfriends who have dumped me due to that particular deficit.  

"Wow."

I shrug again, and take a seat on the davenport.  

"Incredible."

I take a sip of my lukewarm tea.

"Who are you and what have you done with Harmon Rabb?"

"Ha, ha, marine.  Is it really so surprising that I would say that?"

"That you would _say_ that?  Yes.  Yes, it is."  She plops down next to me.  She places a hand against my forehead.

"Do you have to do that every time I say or do something that's just remotely outside my normal operating procedure?"

"Remotely?  You knocked that one out of the park.  I'm impressed.  There's hope for you yet, Harm."

"Don't spread that around."

"I wouldn't dare," she says in mock seriousness, eyes bright and wide.  "You really are something," she murmurs, smiling.

"So . . . are you still wanting to go away for the weekend?"

"Yes."

"Name your destination, Mac."

"I kind of like Nantucket," she ventures.

"Nantucket it is, Mac.  You want to book the flight, or me?  Or do you want to reserve the hotel room and I book the flight?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa—it's not that simple, Harm."

What now?  

"If we go to Nantucket it's going to be expensive.  You're not going to shoulder all that on your own."

"So?  I already told you're worth it.  Whatever it costs has to be a bargain for the pleasure of your company for an entire weekend."  She rubs a finger against my cheek, before replacing it with her mouth.  "I mean that, Sarah," I state softly.  She leans forward again to graze my lips gently with her own.

"We're still splitting the costs," she retorts when she pulls away.

Arrrgghh.  Stubborn jarheads.

**********

TBC . . .


	23. Chapter TwentyThree

"Hey, Mac," I call eagerly, screeching to a halt when I realize she's not alone in her office.  "Hello, Harriet," I say, regulating my voice into something I hope is less suspicious.

"Good morning, sir," Harriet replies cheerfully, her eyes darting from Mac to me.  Mac smiles at me politely.  I nonchalantly place the file folder I was carrying behind my back, clutched securely in my clasped hands.  It contains the printout receipt of our plane reservations, and a couple other pertinent details, which I'm thankful I had the foresight to disguise in a bland old manila file folder.

"Bud all settled?"

"Yes, sir, I think so."

"Good, good."

It's quiet for a moment while we all wait for the other to say something, and where two people, at least, wish to be left alone without being too obvious about it.

"Well, sir, ma'am, I need to get back to work."

"Ah, yes, I have a matter to discuss with the colonel."

"Thank you, Harriet," Mac says.  Harriet smiles at the both of us and shuts the door behind her.  The blinds are still open, however, and closing them now would not be prudent.

I turn my attention back to Mac.  She gives me a welcome, secret smile.  My smile.  The smile I've only ever seen bestowed onto me.  And I've seen it a lot these past few weeks.  

"I've got our tickets, well, E-ticket confirmation," I hold up the manila folder.  "We are booked for a 1630 flight.  We should arrive in Nantucket by 2000 the latest."  Her smile widens to almost giddy.  It quickly disappears.

"We're going to have to leave work early," she notes.  "It's going to draw attention if we're both checked out of here before quitting time."

"Nothing I can do about it, Mac.  We can get a later flight out to Boston, but our puddle-jump to Nantucket wouldn't be until the next morning."  And I want our weekend to start as soon as possible, I add silently.  This explanation does not appease Mac, as her brow only sinks lower into the corner of her eye.

"I don't know if we can both get out of work that early.  We've got traffic, security checkpoints—Harm, we'll probably have to leave JAG by no later than 1500 hours.  How are we going to do that?"  I start to shrug, unable to provide an answer beyond 'we'll figure something out.'

"You know what I'm thinking?" she continues without pausing for a response to either question, "I'm thinking we should go public with our relationship."

"Whoa, Mac.  Let's not be hasty."

"Do you have a better solution?  We need to be honest.  Why are we hiding, anyway?"

"We're not hiding, Mac.  We're just…ensuring that we have a chance for privacy.  A chance for peace.  A chance for us."  The truth is I'm selfish.  I suppose that's no real, big surprise, but now that we are pursuing something beyond friendship, I've gotten stingy with regards to Mac.  I just feel that if everyone knows about us I'll never quite have Mac to myself.  As it is, work occupies a lot of our time; investigations, court, the extensive traveling we both do in addition to various social obligations, related and unrelated to work, leaves us with seemingly little time to devote to each other.  Not to mention the fact that we've—I've—wasted so much time already.  I'm not sure that I can speak for Sarah, but now that I've got my head in gear, I basically just want to lock ourselves away somewhere, even though I know it's not physically possible, and, for a few months at least, I just want to explore and experience this thing together, quietly and privately.  I just want the chance to love Sarah MacKenzie for who and what she is without distractions.  If we come out, to borrow an expression, we immediately place ourselves under the scrutiny of coworkers and friends.  And I know that we'll have to deal with it at some point, and I'm not scared of what they might say or think, or what decisions may have to be made as a result, but can you really blame a guy for wanting to stave off the inevitable?

"Does a chance at us really mean subterfuge?"

"It's not subterfuge, Mac.  It's being discreet.  And it's not really like we're sneaking around.  We go out.  And we just try to keep our relationship at the office professional."  Okay, so our relationship at the office has never been strictly professional, but, still.

"Professional?  Harm, you came in here to discuss our plans for our romantic weekend."

"Besides," I continue, ignoring her point, "if we come clean, are you ready to deal with all the consequences it might mean here at JAG?"  

She doesn't respond.  I figured as much.  I'm not quite ready, either.  It's something I'm going to have to consider when it gets down to crunch time with my commitment plans.  Until then, I'd just as soon not think about it; I'm not ready to jeopardize our present relationship progression due to work concerns.  

"We'll figure something out, Mac.  You and I have always made a great team.  We put our heads together I'm sure we'll think of something."  This finally seems to calm her a little, and she holds out her hand for the folder.  She fingers the printout receipt of our reservations, and stares intently at the information.  Her expression seems to indicate more surprise and awe, than concentration and memorization.

"Mark your calendar, Mac.  A week from Friday…" I pause, wanting to say 'you'll be mine,' but it sounds far too possessive, "…we'll be touching down in Nantucket."

She nods after a moment, and I wonder if the sound of my words weren't delayed just a little by the weight they seem to carry.  She leafs through a couple printouts on the local dining options before replacing them with the ticket confirmation back into the file, a pensive statement on her face.  I take the file from her and prepare to depart, knowing the blinds are still open and that this entire play is probably being viewed by most of the office—and surely the surreptitious eyes of Harriet and Sturgis.  With Bud gone, I have a feeling the collective comings and goings of Mac and I, and any subsequent interactions will be closely documented by a bored, lonely and romantic LT Sims.  Sturgis's only excuse is his dangerous curiosity and his troublesome penchant for meddling.

"Anyway, I've got to get back to work.  I just wanted to let you know we're all set on transportation.  So my end is taken care of."  I pause to see if she'll jump in with any information on lodging, but so far she's been kind of hush-hush about it, although I assume we'll stay in the large bed-and-breakfast she's been ogling.  

I glance through the blinds and notice a blond head duck away.  I can only imagine what it must look like in here to observers.  Certainly to such romantic diehards as Harriet—and apparently Sturgis—our conversations and interactions must rival the best scenes from Shakespearean plays.  I have to admit there have been several instances where I think we've played the fated lovers.  For better or worse.

The sound of Mac gasping suddenly jerks me out of my thoughts and I spin around, away from the door, to face her, momentarily forgetting our uniformed audience.

"A week from Friday?  A week from _this_ Friday?"  I nod in response, my heart thudding loudly against my chest.  Please God; don't let her back out of this.  I want this; I really, really want this.  If she gets cold feet about our weekend, I'm not sure if we can fully recover.  We seem to be at a juncture of sorts where our relationship has only two paths to blaze—all or nothing.

"That's not enough time," she mutters.  My throat immediately tightens, but I manage to push a question past.

"Time for what?" I ask, not sure if I really want to know.

"Harm—I barely have a week left to shop!  Do you know how much stuff I have to get yet!"

Oh, thank God.  Is that all?  The furious pounding lessens and my heart rate and breathing return slowly to normal.

"Well, you're a marine.  I'm sure this is not beyond your gung-ho capabilities."

She flashes me a dirty look.  I smirk in response.

"And besides, Mac, we're only going to be gone for a few days.  How much stuff could you possibly have to buy?"  

She bites her lip and looks away.  Then the corners of her mouth turn up in that devastating seductive smile and she looks at me contemplatively with those dark, dark, black, eyes.  My heart suddenly changes gears again and begins to pound furiously away.

"Well," she remarks after a thoughtful sigh, "I'm sure you have work to do so I won't keep you any longer."

Right.  As if I could think about work now.

***********

1346 ZULU (0846 EST)

JAG HQ

Falls Church, VA

Six hours, fourteen minutes, and twenty-two seconds until lift-off.  Touchdown.  D-Day.  Whatever.  

Six hours, fourteen minutes, and thirty-one seconds until I jet off with the most important person in my life for an intimate weekend away.

Six hours, fourteen minutes, and forty-three seconds.  I grin with anticipation.

Actually, I'm not sure about the seconds part.  Mac would probably know the exact time, but hey, what's a few seconds?

A lifetime.  Minutes are eons, and I'm not sure what increment of time could accurately describe the hours I have to go until I can bust out of here.

Jesus, there's no hope of me getting any work done today.  I've actually managed, through the discipline that comes from twenty years of wearing a Navy uniform, the control of a seasoned naval aviator, and the stubborn persistence inherent in a Rabb, to get a few things accomplished this past week at work.

Unfortunately, there's nothing left in reserves to carry that accomplishment through today.  

At this point, my best hope and plan is to try and make it through today without drawing the attention of Sturgis, Harriet, and the Admiral.

Lofty ambition, I know, especially considering the aforementioned depleted reserves.  However, I wouldn't be me, as Mac would likely point out, if I were anything less than ambitious.

I wonder how Mac can stand this.  Speaking of Mac, where is she?  It's almost nine and I still haven't caught sight of her.  Maybe that's for the best.  I really think if I laid eyes on her I'd give everything away.  I keep having to force myself not to smile so widely and so much or everyone Iwill/I notice.  

I didn't get a chance to see her last night, either.  She said she had some last minute shopping to take care of, gave me a secret smile, an open-mouthed kiss in the elevator and practically bounced down the steps to her car.  When I called later on, she was all vague and mysterious, and said she would see me tomorrow at work, and hoped I would get a good night's sleep, because I would need my strength and plenty of energy once we touched down in Nantucket.

And of course, do you think I was able to sleep after that?!

Hmm.  Maybe it's best not to dwell on Mac right now, either.  I mean, I already know that a long attention span is out of the question today, but do I have to tempt fate?  Focus on something else, Rabb.  Have you got everything packed?  Because once we get the hell out of here, we're not turning back for **_anything_**.

A nice suit.  Check.  Some nice pants and a dress shirt.  Check.  New boxers.  Check.  A couple of T-shirts.  Check.  A pair of jeans.  Check.  Shaving kit.  Check.  Shoes, dress and casual.  Check.  Wallet, forms of ID, E-ticket receipts, money, car keys.  Check, check, check, check, check.

Okay.  Everything sounds in order.  That took all of, what?  Five minutes?  So…six hours and nine minutes and whatever seconds until we depart for Dulles.  I glance at my watch.  0901.  Even better.  Five hours and fifty-nine minutes and whatever seconds until Dulles.

Oh, crap.  I'd better think of how we're both going to escape JAG—I've been putting that off.  Right now, I'm all for the two of us leaving at 1500 and just facing the admiral's wrath when we get back.

However, I'd better have a better answer than that in case Mac asks.  There is no way we're not going.

So, how to work this…is there anything that we could go investigate under the pretense of interviewing a witness and then do that (or not, depending) and depart?  Unfortunately we're not working a joint case right now, so I'd have to come up with an explanation why the one of us had to accompany the other.  Maybe Mac or I could leave the office under the pretense of one needing to take their car into the shop and the other has to pick whichever one of us up.  Hmm…not bad.  Doable.  May need a little fine-tuning.  I can work that out later.

Well, now that that's out of the way…

Ahh, there's my marine.  I watch as she and Sturgis heatedly discuss something—a case, no doubt.  I can tell by Sturgis's gestures he's hoping to reason with her.  Fat chance, bubblehead.  Once Mac sets her mind on something there's no pleading with her.   I would have figured you'd know that by now, Sturgis.  

I turn my attention to the feisty woman in front of him, and though I can only see her profile, I know those chocolaty brown eyes are nearly black and flashing.  Her cheeks are a bit pinker than usual, as they usually darken when her mouth is moving at a frantic pace.  My viewpoint from my office also affords me the opportunity to notice things about her I'd either never dare to focus my attention on in an office setting or am too incensed when I'm arguing with her to pay attention to.  

Like her heavenly figure.  From here I can really appreciate the way her uniform fits over her body.  Yes, she's an officer and a damn fine one at that, but she's also a woman, and while I may be a fellow officer I'm still a man, and I can fully appreciate the affect a woman like Mac has on an article of clothing—even a military uniform.  Especially a military uniform.  

I almost wish that our first time together would involve stripping her of those marine greens, but we've both brought a change of clothing for the flight so as to be less conspicuous, and less confined, as wearing a uniform means one must follow protocol regarding it.

Although, there have been several times where we've completely ignored that protocol to satisfy our mutual whim.  In fact, the very instance that started this whole new phase in our relationship is an excellent example.  Mac kissed me in the break room.  Nothing scandalous, well nothing _too_ scandalous UCMJ wise, but definitely not a platonic peck on the cheek.  Of course, since then it's steadily progressed into something that certainly would be scandalous if our luck ever ran out and we were caught.

At any rate, two officers canoodling on a plane is liable to take notice, especially when one officer bears the uniform of the Navy and the other of the Marine Corps.  For some reason, a couple comprised of one squid and one jarhead seems to attract a lot of attention.

Okay, okay.  So I'd be staring, too, especially if said jarhead was as beautiful as my marine.  

Better cool that manly pride, Rabb, before it gets you in deep with your marine.

*********

Here we are at ground zero.  I swear if I can't get my mind off Mac we might as well make a banner and hang it up here in the break room.  _Rabb and MacKenzie off for a weekend special in three hours and forty-eight minutes._  I open the refrigerator and scope around for something appetizing.  And crunchy.  I feel like crunching on something.  I doubt I'll find it in the refrigerator though.  Unless I decide to be brave and tackle Mac's macaroni salad that's been here for two weeks.

"Well, isn't this just a sight to behold."

I glance behind me to find Mac with her arms crossed, leaning against the counter.

"What?"  So I'm rifling through the refrigerator.  Big deal.  Then it hits me that Mac really wasn't looking at my face when she said that.  I straighten up and turn around.  

"Very funny, Mac," I give her a warning look.  I'm not sure why.  I'm about two steps away from compromising my partner.  Maybe three.  I've got long legs though; I could do it in two.

She smiles sweetly, oblivious to my thoughts.  

"Looking for something in particular?" she asks as I peruse each cabinet, pulling down a box of graham crackers from one before deciding I'm not in the honey grahams mood.

"Not really."  I close the cupboard door and sigh.

"Ahh, no rice cakes?" she coos in sympathy.  I flash her another look before turning my attention to something other than her.  She's only about one step away now and I can feel my muscles twitching in anticipation.

I pick up a lone equal packet and flap it against my hand as I wrestle with my hormones once again.  They're becoming more demanding as Nantucket looms nearer.  I remind myself Nantucket and this weekend are all part of a larger picture I'm moving towards.  One that I hope Mac wants to move towards as well.  Time, and perhaps this weekend, will tell.

Still.

One quick little kiss can't hurt.

**********

Damn Sturgis.  

The man has impeccable timing as usual.

I didn't even get the pleasure of brushing my mouth along her cheek, much less her lips, before he came bumbling in, trying to plea bargain with Mac.  Give it up already!  

I think Mac agreed to consider his offer just to get him off her case—and to distract him from our guilty behavior.  I slunk out of the break room shortly after that.  

The good news is I think we separated quickly enough before he could suspect something.

**********

The bad news is it's now seventeen past departure time.  I'm in my office talking with a potential expert witness that I've been trying for over a week to get a hold of.  I think he'll be perfect for my case and if he'd only shut up for a minute I'd tell him so.   I glance at my watch and look up with a helpless shrug when Mac knocks softly on my door.  I'm just glad we already dropped her car off at her place under our predetermined excuse that she was getting some work done on it.  By both our calculations we were supposed to be on the road to Dulles at 1500.  Still, if we manage to escape work by 1530 it should be okay.

**********

It's 1529, yes, I'm sure the condition of the aircraft in such a case would merit a closer look at the inspection methods the techs employ.  Come on, come on.

**********

1536.  All right, deep breath.  Exhale.  Inhale.  Exhale.  1536 is not bad.  You could still make your flight.  Just tell this guy you've got a pressing matter to attend to and that you hope to get a hold of him Monday.

He won't be in Monday.  Great.  Fine.  Whatever.  Tuesday, then.  

Yes, I look forward to hearing from you, too.

Yes, I have your business card.

I email Mac to meet me downstairs and be ready to leave come hell or high water in two minutes.

Yes, I'll leave a message with your secretary if I can't get a hold of you.  

Finally!  I hang up the phone, shut down my computer, grab my briefcase and cover, keys, flip off the light and tell Harriet I'm taking Mac to pick up her car and I'm not sure when I'll be back, and then the elevator doors close and I'm almost free.

**********

1541.  We can still make it.  Fortunately I know a few shortcuts.

"Where the hell are you going?"

"Shortcut."

"Harm, we've got 48 minutes and 27 seconds to get through security and make our flight.  You'd better know where you're going."

"I know where I'm going, Mac," I reply, sailing through a yellow light.

She takes a firm hold of the oh-shit handle and falls silent.

"You've got our room confirmation number?"

"Yeah.  You got the plane ticket confirmation?"

"Yeah, in my breast pocket."

We both fall silent for the rest of the trip.

**********

"Told you we'd make it," I state triumphantly as Mac twists around in her seat to fish out her seatbelt.  She flashes me a pretty smile.

"Yes, we had exactly 38 seconds to spare before final boarding call."

"Still, we made it."  I can no longer contain my excitement as I feel my mouth stretch wide in a smile.  Mac returns the sentiment full force, her own happiness bordering on giddy.

"Yes, we did."

We gaze at one another intently, and I wish we weren't in uniform so I could kiss her, but there are already a few spectators taking note of us, and instead I turn my attention to the stewardess and the safety instructions I've heard a hundred times before.  I sneak another glance at Mac.  She looks at me and my stomach flutters and twists and it's just like I'm flying at mach two except the nervous excitement and anticipation is all due to the woman sitting next to me.

Another three hours, Rabb, and you'll be where you've always wanted to be.  In the arms of your marine.


	24. Chapter Twentyfour

0222 ZULU (2122 EST)

BED-AND-BREAKFAST

NANTUCKET ISLAND

Slowly, unwilling to part company from my contented sleep, I come awake.  And aware.   And the thing I'm most conscious of is the body spooned against me, the masculine arm draped around my waist, and the firm nose pressed against my neck.  The mouth, just as near, warms my shoulder with each rhythmic breath.

I listen to Harm breathe, such a mundane aspect providing immense peace and, strangely, happiness.  I shift around a little, trying to wrap myself deeper into his embrace.  The movement causes Harm to nuzzle my neck and I immediately still, not wanting to disturb his slumber.  I try to convince myself to go back to sleep but I can't.

I feel the grin start to spread and I'm powerless to stop it.

I, Sarah MacKenzie, just made love with Harmon Rabb, Jr.  Normally I don't publicize those kinds of things, but maybe I wasn't clear.

Sarah MacKenzie—me!—made love with Harmon Rabb!

I may take out a full-page ad.

I sigh quite contentedly.

Nope.  There's no way in hell I can sleep now.  

I peel off the arm slung around me, and slip carefully out of bed.  I'm immediately accosted by the chill as goose bumps pimple out all over me.  Hastily I search for something to cover myself with and finally I come across something suitable.

Now for my feet.  I rummage through my bag and pull out a pair of socks.

Ahh, better.

I look at the large brick fireplace, and wish, momentarily, that we had taken Mrs. Paxton up on her offer to have someone start a fire for us.  That, however, would have entailed someone bringing up some kindling, and lighting it, and stoking it.  That would have involved time.

That would have involved waiting.

I stumble over a shoe—Harm's—and brush it aside.

I wish I could say that we received our key and the bellboy took our bags and led us up the grand old staircase and down the hall to our room.

That I slipped into the bathroom while Harm and the bellboy exchanged a few respective instructions and pleasantries, and while Harm tipped him I slipped into something slinky and sexy.

And, in the few minutes between the bellboy's leave and my appearance, Harm took the opportunity to dim the lights, flip on the stereo, and fold down the bed.  And then I stepped out and Harm looked at me with love and awe, and pulled me gently to him and guided us to bed where we made love all night.

I wish.  But…

As soon as that door clicked shut it's like the levee broke.  It started building in the lobby.  Mrs. Paxton asked if we would like Sam (the bellboy) to carry our bags up and Harm's polite but firm no seemed to make the reality hit home.  We were here.  In Nantucket.  But mere minutes from being alone—truly alone—with each other.  Suddenly, the urgency took over.

Mrs. Paxton mentioned preparing a fire in our room, and again Harm smiled and politely refused and I found myself shaking my head no along with him.  I even heard myself say that we did not wish to be disturbed.  And Mrs. Paxton smiled knowingly (they always do that and I hate it) and presented us with our key and wished us a pleasant stay.

And slowly we made our way up the stairs, hardly talking except to point out a trivial amenity.

And when we reached our room and that door clicked shut, Harm was all over me.  And I him.  We were fused together, all mouths and hands and bodies and uniforms be damned.  They were soon gone in a frenzy of passion.  A pump tossed over there, a tie lost near the window; both our jackets lost somewhere near the door; my skirt slipped and kicked off near the cold, dark fireplace; my blouse and a few scattered buttons lying in a heap by the divan.

Anyway, to borrow a boring, and wholly inadequate cliché, we had wild passionate sex and it's only 2130.

Not that I'm complaining, mind you.  Wild, passionate sex with Harmon Rabb is nothing to scoff at.  And, as they say, the night is young.  The relative early hour gives us a chance to eat dinner—and after that thoroughly enjoyable little foray, I'm famished.  And, now that we've taken care of our loud libidos we can take our time and do things right.  And I fully intend on making Harm's—and my—night tonight.  That lovely little piece of lingerie from Russia will be putting in an appearance—most likely a brief one, I think with a smile—later tonight.

"Well, aren't you a pretty picture?" A decidedly smug voice calls from the bed.  I turn around to find Harm propped up on one elbow with a cocky grin on his face.  "Imagine what the Corps would do if they saw you in that.  And with white socks.  _Very_ sexy, marine."

I blush but smile all the same.  The attire he refers to is that of his white uniform blouse, complete with Navy commander's bars—retrieved from the floor because it is long-sleeved and in my hour of packing, I didn't think to pack a nice warm, fuzzy, robe.  The socks, likewise, are to keep my feet shielded from the ice-cold hardwood floor.

"Sorry.  It's the only thing remotely warm that was nearby."

"I don't mind," he says, and I can tell from his admiring gaze that he certainly doesn't.  His blouse falls to my knees, and the cuffs extend well past my fingertips, where they flap about annoyingly.  Still, in a moment of fancy I twirl around, modeling my latest fashion.

"Very nice, indeed," he murmurs appreciatively.  He sits up and plants his feet on the rug, the blankets bunched around his waist, and looks around wonderingly.  "Where did you toss my boxers?"

Good question.  

I look around the bed, assuming they would most likely be nearby as they were the last thing to go, but they're nowhere in sight.

"Hmmm . . . I don't know.  I don't see them."

Harm leans forward to peer underneath the bed and then twists around to scan the area behind him.  I notice a faint scar on his lower back, putting to view what my fingers found earlier.  He has never really talked about his first crash, but I reckon I am seeing a couple of the more tangible effects from it.

"A-ha!" 

"Find them?" I ask, returning to the matter at hand.

"Yes, over there."  He points to an area near one of the dormer windows.  

"Where?"

"On the plant."  He gestures to a tall potted plant, and sure enough, a pair of regulation white boxers hangs from one of the stems.  I toss them to him.

"Thank you."  Deftly he slips them on and stands up.  He gives me a lopsided grin.  I twist my hands together and smile nervously, suddenly self-conscious.

The appraising eye Harm casts over me does not help my nervousness.  He observes my hair, and I quickly bring a hand up to smooth it down.  His eyes travel languorously down my body, my hands following hastily behind to smooth away any perceived wrinkle or defect.  I'm growing more uncomfortable by the second.  His jade eyes, after finishing their cursory sweep, return to mine.

"God you're beautiful," he says softly.  My face warms at the praise and I find myself floating a little higher than before.  I look away before he sees how pleased his comment has made me—wouldn't want a squid thinking he can easily charm a marine.  When I glance back I have my emotions under control.  Mostly.

However, I seem to have forgotten how to talk because I'm suddenly unsure of what to say.

_Evening?  Hey you.  You're not so bad yourself.  Thanks?_

So instead we stand there and stare at each other and with each passing second Harm pulls me further and further into his gaze.  I'm amazed and a little frightened at the depth of what I see there.  And there's no place for me—for either of us—to run and escape it.

Finally, he looks away, surveying the room while I feel the break of the connection almost physically.  I'm both a little relieved and disappointed.

"Wow," he chuckles somewhat abashedly.  I follow his gaze and chuckle also.  Our clothes are nearly everywhere.  They lead a messy and incriminating trail to the large, four-poster bed.

"Wow."  He looks at me, hands on hips, and chuckles again.

"Yeah," I agree, noting the disarray doesn't end with the clothes.  A lampshade is bent at an angle.  The pad of paper, pens, and pamphlets from the desk has been brushed to the floor, which is weird because I don't recall using the desk.  A pillow from the divan lies on the floor.  And the comforter is heaped at the end of the bed, one corner trailing down across the floor.  

Actually, come to think of it, I think we did make a brief stop at the desk while Harm removed my pantyhose.  I wonder where those are. 

"We may have been a bit overzealous," Harm muses sheepishly.  

"Been a while, has it?"

"You tell me," he returns.  Touche.  I bite the inside of my cheek but it doesn't dim my smile.

"I don't know," I say teasingly, "I think it added to the moment."  Harm nearly knocks me off my feet with the wattage behind his trademark flyboy grin.

"Well, we can clean all that up later," he suggests.

"Much later."  His eyebrows spike towards his hairline as he considers my statement. 

"I'm hungry," I clarify.

"When aren't you?" He replies rolling his eyes.

"I've worked up quite an appetite, thank you."  The smug grin is back.

"Your welcome," he replies grinning.  I roll my eyes.  His ego is one that does not need to be stroked.  But I have to say, he's kind of cute and sexy when he's like this.  Some great sexual tension always arises when his arrogant side turns up—inevitably we start flirting.  And now that we have an outlet for all that tension, flirting can really lead somewhere enjoyable…mmm…well, anyway.  Focus on the topic at hand, MacKenzie.  Food.

"I haven't eaten since noon," I remind him.  

"Just when I think you might be paying me a compliment." 

"Haarrmm…"

"All right, all right.  We wouldn't want you going hungry," he murmurs stepping close enough to pull me into his arms.  He slips his hands around my waist and pops a nearby button from its hole.

"It wouldn't be pretty," I second.

"Mmm," he murmurs as he traces his mouth over my ear and neck.  Another button pops loose and his hand slips in to caress my stomach.  The other one cups my face as he continues to massage my profile with his mouth.  Damn he has great hands.  Large and masculine, but soft with nimble fingers…

Nimble fingers that are unbuttoning my shirt.  His shirt.  

His hand moves away from my waist on an upward trajectory as he loosens yet another button and I know I'm going to have to put a stop to this or we may never make it to dinner, and then, well, I wouldn't want to be him around a starving marine.  There are days when I could just eat him up anyway…

Besides, we both need the chance to regroup.  Me, so I can break out the heavy artillery; Harm, so he can, er, prepare for the next onslaught.

"All right, that's enough of that, Navy," I say pulling away with smile.

"What?  Maybe I just want my shirt back."

"Really?  Is that all?"  I slip it off and let it drop on the floor between us.  "There you are."  Grabbing my bag, I smile at the expression on his handsome face.  He finally snaps his jaw closed and manages to blink once by the time I step into the bathroom.  

"I'll just be a moment."

***********

I feel Harm's eyes tracking every curve of my body and I take this opportunity to congratulate myself on a job well done.  Shopping, that is.  The time and money spent, and it was a hefty bundle, is well worth the reaction I've received.  I'm just slightly ahead of him as we make our way down the oak staircase to the lobby of our B-and-B.  I think Harm's lagging behind is due more to the opportunity to stare at me then on any gentlemanly gesture on his part.  Not that I would accuse Harm of being anything less than a gentleman, it's just…I know that look.

That look that he gave me when I stepped out of the bathroom and found his eyes on me, so soft and gentle, awed and admiring.  Desire churning from their depths.  He had managed to dig out some black pants and a beautiful charcoal gray dress shirt, and looked to be in the middle of slipping on his shoes when I caught his attention with the twist of the doorknob.

"Damn."

Well put.  This isn't the heaviest of my artillery, but it's an effectual weapon nonetheless.  A seemingly benign outfit, the black sweater set hugs my frame, and the neckline, combined with a pushup bra, makes for a nice hint of cleavage.  The red skirt falls two inches short of my knees, its deadliest attribute being the way it drapes over my hips.  A pair of strappy stilettos completes the look, and gives my legs an extra boost.  Okay, it _is_ a bit chilly for a skirt, but I think the initial sacrifice of warmth is made up with the heat of Harm's gaze as he looks me over.  

All in all, when used properly by a well-trained marine this weapon can make a squid fall to his knees in mercy.  Or at least murmur a mild expletive and proceed to gape in awe.

We often (often?!  Try all the damn time.  Try six plus years!  Anyway…) have to hide our attraction to one another, so when the opportunity presents itself for open admiration I can understand the desire to want to take advantage of it.  Sometimes you just want to look.  And stare.

So I'm letting him look and rejoicing in the fact that I _have_ Harmon Rabb straining to look.  And not doing much to hide that fact.

I reach the front desk and wait for Harm to catch up.

"Ah, Mrs. MacKenzie," a voice greets me, startling me out of my own starefest at Harm.  "And Mr. MacKenzie," Mrs. Paxton raises her voice to greet Harm.  "How are your accommodations?"

"He's not—we're not—" I start to say but I'm shushed by Harm who talks right over me.

"Wonderful, Mrs. Paxton.  The room is beautiful."  I wonder when he found the time to really look at it, between pressing me up against the furniture and the catnap he took.  All I can take credit for noticing is the bed…and the divan…and the desk and such, but I couldn't accurately describe what color they were, what type of wood they were made out of, even whether it was light or dark.  

"Oh, good, good," Mrs. Paxton answers happily.

"Actually, we were thinking about taking you up on your offer to start a fire."  We were?  "Is it too late for that?"

"No," Mrs. Paxton exclaims, reminding me of Harriet, "I'll just get Sam to get a load of kindling ready."

"Thank you," Harm says, gracing her with his trademark grin.  Mrs. Paxton seems to melt in front of us.  "We're just going out for a bite to eat, but I assume everything will be in order when we get back?"

"Of course.  I'll send Sam up in about half an hour or so."

"Sounds good.  Well, I think we're ready to go eat," Harm looks to me for confirmation and I smile in agreement although inside I kind of want to hit him.  Hard.

"You know, the Fisherman's Café has wonderful smoked crab," Mrs. Paxton calls as I guide Harm out the doors.

"You feel like crab?" Harm asks, gathering his bearings.  

"No, I feel like hitting you," I reply, looking around also.  

"Why?  What did I do now?"  

I ignore the implied accusation that he is often wrongly slighted.  I take a few steps with Harm before realizing we're headed the wrong way.  I slip my arm through his and pull gently.  "It's this way."  We turn and head south.

"So why are you mad at me?"

"I'm not mad at you."

"Okaaaay.  So you just feel like hitting me often then?  Wait, don't answer that."

"Actually, yes."  I grin, and smile even more when I feel Harm's fingers lace through mine.  Harm is not much of a PDA person, not that I am either, and I suppose handholding is not that big of a deal.  To me it just brings home the fact we are now a couple, and at least here, we don't have to hide it.

And I hope soon, too, at JAG.

We walk a few paces in silence.  "What place are we looking for?"

"Endetto's."

"So what back there upset you?"

"I don't—oh, God!"  We both stop.  "Harm!"

"What?"  He looks worried.

"You told Mrs. Paxton to get a fire going?"

"Yes.  That's what you're mad about?"

"No—our clothes, Harm.  Did you clean any of that up?"

"What?  No—" he breaks off suddenly.  "Oh.  Whoops.  I didn't think of that.  Oh well."

I wonder how he can be so relaxed about it, but then, he's _wearing_ his under shorts.  My bra and panties' whereabouts are still unknown.  As much as I want to help educate the youth of America, I really don't want to give teenage Sam the thrill of discovering my skivvies hanging from the mantle—or wherever the hell they are.    

"Great.  I could handle you knowing what color my underwear is, but I'm not sure if I can handle some sixteen year-old kid."

Harm chuckles.  "Actually, I'm not sure if I could tell you what color your underwear was."

"That doesn't surprise me how fast you slipped them off."

"I didn't hear any complaints."

My face flushes, but I manage to rejoin, "Again, you really didn't give me the chance."

"Again, I didn't hear any complaints.  You being the semper fi marine, I'm sure you could have gotten your point across quite clearly if you had really wanted to.  Your elbows are certainly sharp enough."  He rubs his stomach in remembrance.

I jab him gently in the side with one.

"You don't feed me soon, I'm going to semper fi you in a minute."

"Well, where is this place?"  We both stop and peer around.  

"Ah, there it is."

"Where?" he asks, still looking ahead of us.

"Back there."  I point to cape coddish looking façade about a half block behind us.

"I'm disappointed, marine.  I was sure that stomach would lead us straight to the place."

I jab him again in the side again, only this time a little harder.  He smirks in response.

**********

I stand in front of the mirror putting the final touches on my hair.  I am adorned in my long white nightgown that enthralls Harm so much.  Harm's in our room, clearing away our scattered garments, and tending, periodically to the fire.  

After dinner, we sat on the divan for a while and just enjoyed each other's company and the warm flame lapping against the logs.  I decided to take a bath, and even though I was tempted to share my space in the tub, I left Harm to tend to the room.  I promised myself this gown would make an appearance and it's going to.  Everything's going to be as close to perfect as possible—and so far, we've been riding pretty close to that line.  I check to make sure nothing's stuck between my teeth and my breath smells minty fresh and spritz on a light dusting of Harm's favorite perfume.  I hear a clink as I replace the bottle on the vanity and gasp in horror as I watch my Marine Corps ring slide down the basin.

Whew!

It's too big to slip down the drain grating.  I pick it up and place it carefully in the soapdish next to Harm's shaving kit.  I slip off my watch and place it in the soapdish also.

I take one last critical look at my reflection and square my shoulders.  It's time to storm the beaches.  

**********

"Watcha reading, squid?" I ask nonchalantly, peering over the arm of divan and Harm's shoulder to take a closer look at what has him so engrossed that he missed my grand entrance.  He jumps.  "I hate it when you do that," he grumbles and then stops.

I can pinpoint that exact second he realizes what I'm wearing when he looks at me because he does a double take and his green eyes darken.  He stares at the tops of my breasts that my bent figure affords him a great view of before licking his lips and locking eyes with me.  

"You smell good."

"Thank you."

He sets the pamphlet—one of the many from the desk about Historic Nantucket—down on the floor beside him and focuses his attention on me.  I share the space by his legs, taking a nearby seat on the divan facing him.

"That is some gown," he remarks, almost reverently.

"You think so?"  My tone is that of _this old thing?_  Okay, so I'm being coy.  I'm entitled to a little flattery, I think.

"Mm-hmm.  Definitely.  You look good in it."

"Thank you."  I accept a lingering kiss and slide a little bit closer to my handsome sailor.  He wraps his arms around me and pulls me against him, and I sigh with pleasure as I lay my head against his chest.  His shirt is nearly open and I run my fingers through the dark patch of chest hair and listen to his heart beat fiercely against his rib cage.  Its pace matches my own quickening one.  We both stare at the fire as Harm places a kiss on the top of my head.  And then another one to the right.  And another one to the right of that.

"You'd look even better out of it."  

"You think so?"  I ask as a giggle almost escapes me.  Marines don't giggle.  Especially when they're trying to seduce tall, handsome squids.  

"Mm-hmm," he says as I straighten.  He takes my face delicately between his fingers and for a moment we are frozen staring into each other eyes and I see what I saw earlier deep within his.  I only hope my own mirror it just as clearly.   

"Definitely."

TBC…


	25. Chapter TwentyFive

PART TWENTY-FIVE:

***********

I drift slowly awake; the firm pull of consciousness causing me to dig in my heels.  I've never slept better in my life.  The closest thing in recent memory is that night I hot-bunked with Harm in his bed.  

Well, just another reason to keep him beside me.  I'm sure Harm would agree.  Besides, he's always concerned with the little amount of sleep I usually get.

Finally I give up the fight and allow my eyes to open.  I stare at the ceiling taking in what little sounds and sights are available to orient me.  I'm chagrined to say my internal clock is probably at least an hour or so off.  By my best reasoning it's still early morning, maybe 0730 or so.

The only sounds to serenade me come from my bed partner as he inhales noisily every third or fourth breath.  I'm too tired and warm and cozy to even try to get out of bed yet.  The fire's long since gone out so I know outside this bed and these covers a chilly hardwood floor and room awaits me.  Nope, better to just lie here and keep warm.  I turn my head to Harm and allow his presence to engage me for a while.

He looks happy, the corners of his mouth turned up in a satisfied smile.  Then again, I made his night twice last night.  His head is turned toward me, an arm slung out once again to cover my waist.  One beautifully sculpted cheek is plainly visible, eyelashes as dark and silky as his hair resting lightly against his flesh.  A dense peppering of whiskers mars his profile.  I reach over and as lightly as possible, so as not to wake Harm, I run my fingers over it.  It feels scratchy and bristly, like very fine sandpaper.  I close my eyes and imagine the gentle scrape of his skin over mine as he trails kisses over me.  Heavenly.  I open my eyes again and allow my gaze to drift down.  

Unfortunately, Harm's lying on his stomach so I can't admire the finer points of his masculinity.  I do take a moment to appreciate his well-toned six before my attention is drawn to that ugly scar along his lower back.  There's another mark along the hip closest to me.

I trail my hands along his spine gingerly, almost afraid to touch it and even more uncertain of what Harm's reaction might be if he should awaken to me doing so.  I highly doubt he would get angry, but I know he does not like to dwell unnecessarily on his first crash (or his second for that matter) and would most likely tense up at any attention given to it.  Not that I blame him.  There are incidents in my life that I'm not too eager to discuss, even with Harm.

I finger the slightly raised, taut skin of his scar and wonder if the fallout from the incident still pains him physically.  I know enough about Harm's crash, and similar incidents, to know that if the parachute does not have enough time to deploy properly you're coming down hard.  And a common injury related to that are broken bones, cracked vertebrae and other spinal injuries.  

The problem is, with the injuries sustained from his latest ejection it's hard, for me at least, to tell whether the aches and pains are new or just a reappearance of an existing, and now exacerbated, problem.  And that's what few little aches and pains I can discern.  Harm, being Harm, rarely lets on when he's hurting and tends to be dismissive of his discomfort.

I know he's not immortal or as untouchable as everyone thinks, but it seems weird sometimes to imagine him otherwise.  To think the normally sure-footed, confident Harm may have been vulnerable, scared, and confused.  Sometimes even I, who _knows_ better, get caught up in the idea that Harm may be invincible.  

I bring my fingers up to my lips and then press them gently against the small of his back.  My mind flickers to the courtyard outside of JAG, shortly after I met a dashing aviator-slash-lawyer named Harmon Rabb.  I knew nothing of his past, his crash, though an aviator working as a JAG it seems I should have guessed that nothing less than catastrophic would have him there.  What pilot would willingly chuck his gold wings for a billet as a desk jockey? 

It was our first case opposing.  We were sitting outside having lunch, discussing the case—or rather Harm's rapidly diving, going down in flames assertion of the defendant's guilt, and that's when it started.

"_When you grasp for straws like that letter, maybe it's time to punch out."_

_"Punching out is the last thing a pilot ever wants to do.  People think you get in trouble pull the magic handle and float safely to the ground.  Every time you punch out you end up an inch shorter."_

I feel a rush of color to my cheeks, remembering the intensity of his statement—a statement borne of experience—and how I ignorantly just laughed it off.

_"No problem, commander.  You got a few inches to spare."_  

I felt so foolish later, when I understood.  I felt I should have known better.  But I didn't know at all.  Harm certainly never mentioned it.  When I first met him I asked what's a JAG doing with wings.  He smiled, the pain well hidden and replied glibly, _"I'm part of a new program to try and boost their image."_ When I pressed him, he said he had a problem with his eyes that left him night-blind and therefore unfit for carrier duty.  It was clear from his tone that that was all there was to say on that subject.

Later, a couple of weeks after I had made that remark in the courtyard, I went in search of Bud and wrangled as much of the story of Harm's crash, and the investigation and incidents aboard the _Seahawk_--when he first met Bud—that led to the reinstatement of his wings.

Later still, I had a better understanding of events when Harm and I were on board investigating the charges from the crossing-the-line ceremony.  I'd like to have decked that DeLong woman for what she said to Harm.  I knew enough of his history by then.  One good marine headlock would have been nice.  Harm even offered up a little information, after he pulled Skates to safety, when I checked to see if he was all right.  Most of what he had to say I already knew from what I pieced together, but it wasn't really the content but the context that was important.  He was confiding in me because he trusted me.  After that, we never really spoke of his crash again, but I was left with a better understanding and appreciation of Harmon Rabb, Jr.

The intensity and complexity, the strength and vulnerability; this seeming enigma that comprises the most incredible man I know.

I can't imagine my life now without him.  I roll to my side, close my eyes, and drift off to sleep.

*********

I wait until her breathing levels out, indicating she is most likely asleep, and then open my eye cautiously.

A fist is curled up underneath her chin as she lies on her side facing me, her other hand buried underneath her pillow.  I watch her sleep, the feel of her fingers so recently still tingling along my spine.

She found my scars.  Not that I wanted to, or could, hide them from her.  It's just, inevitably, with every relationship I've been involved in, the question of how and why they are there always comes up.  Usually I just give as brief and vague an explanation as possible, and then either get down to business or go to sleep.  

I can't do that with Mac, though.  She deserves better than the universal, one-size-fits-all Rabb preclusion.  Fortunately, she can reason out the basic how and why they are there.  I never told her about afterwards; when they airlifted me to the hospital and put me in traction.  And the surgery.  And the PT.  And that's just the physical aspect.  Some of that stuff is just better left unsaid, in my opinion.

I pull the covers away from me and slip out of bed.  As we weren't _quite_ so zealous in our lovemaking last night I'm able to find my boxers with reasonable ease.  I quietly make my way to the bathroom to answer nature's call.

I take a good look in the mirror and find my reflection grinning happily back.  I almost don't recognize my own self I look so happy and content.

I haven't felt so at ease in years.  I swear as I lean closer to the image in the mirror that I look younger, by at least five or six years.  It must be the lighting, I decide.  Or lack there of.  You can hide a load of sins in the dark.  Aging is one of them.  But try as I might, I can find little evidence of the deep lines and dark circles and the puffiness that has taken up residence around my eyes since my drop into the Atlantic.  I flip on the light over the mirror and peer closer.  And what happened to the deep lines that crease my forehead?  I scrunch up my face and note with some satisfaction that one or two are still there—but on closer inspection I must conclude they don't seem as deep.

Still, it has to be the lighting.  Fluorescent lighting has never captured anyone's appearance accurately.  Even Mac's flawless skin sometimes looks more yellow and sallow than I know it could possibly be.

I look thinner, too, I decide.  More fit.  Not quite the slim, sexy stud of my roaring twenties, and even my early thirties, but I don't have to suck it in nearly as hard or deep as, say, six months ago.

Is this the result of a quiet physical change—my body slowly regaining the equilibrium offset by my crash?  Or the result of a subtler effect?  Mac.  Is this what letting go and allowing myself to fall in love with Sarah MacKenzie has done to me?  The smiling moron before me seems to indicate yes.  I find myself agreeing and liking the effect.

I stare at myself for a few minutes longer, pondering this profound revelation.  This epiphany only serves to strengthen an idea that has been growing steadily since its inception.  I nod firmly to myself.  Yup, I'm gonna do it.

I'm going to ask Sarah MacKenzie to marry me.

**********

Of course, I didn't mean today.  No, today's not a good day.  I mean, yeah, we're happy—okay, Mac's ecstatic.  Okay, okay.  So am I.  We're both in amazingly good spirits.  This little cape cod rendezvous was the best decision we've ever made.  

But still.  That's just the afterglow, right?  We still haven't come down from our first night together.  Would I really want to ask Mac to marry me now?  I mean, if she says yes, will it be the afterglow talking or Mac talking?  We don't want to rush into anything, especially anything Mac may not be ready for or sure of.  She may be over Brumby but is she ready to start planning another wedding again?  (And is she _really_ over Brumby?)

And plus, what am I gonna say?  Shouldn't I rehearse or something?  Practice?  Sarah, of all people, of all my relationships deserves that little extra care.  I mean, she is The One.  _The One._  If I'm going to ask her to marry me, I should really think of doing something romantic.  

I mean, am I going to get down on one knee and look deeply into her eyes and tell her how much I love her and that she's the one I want to spend the rest of my life with?  That's traditional, but traditional is still romantic.  Or just say it like it's spur of the moment.  I could say it now.  

Yeah, I could just ask her now.  Spontaneity.  That's romantic.

"Mac will you marry me?"

I look at her and realize that's not what I said at all.

"You think so?  I kind of like the blue one."  She holds up the other T-shirt.

"Yeah, that's nice, too."  I offer a weak smile and return to my thoughts.

Dammit.  Smooth, Rabb, smooth.  Well, obviously it won't do to ask her to marry me if I can't even get the words to form past my mouth.  

And besides, I should really have a ring.  I mean, how does it look if I get down on one knee and have no engagement ring to present her.  It should really look like I put some thought into this and not just let the effect from finally having sex after a nine-month deprivation talk me into a major commitment.

Speaking of ring, I still need to get my hands on one of hers.  Preferably the Marine Corps one, as I know it fits like a glove.  I glance at her hand and feel my eyes widen with surprise.  It's not there.  I look again, trying to be inconspicuous but as far as I can tell she's not wearing it.  Where is it?  Damn, this is the opportunity of a lifetime!

I grab her hand and pull it up to my lips; yup, it's definitely not there.  She looks at me in surprise and smiles, trying not to let on how much she enjoys these impromptu romantic gestures.  Idly, she flips through a couple of clothing racks.  And then turns to a beam covered with magnets.

"What was that for?" She asks, casting a quick glance at me before picking up a magnet in the shape of the island.

"Do I need a reason?"

She shakes her head no.  I rub my finger over the knuckles of the hand I'm still holding before raising it up again.  "Where's your ring?" I ask innocently.  Or at least what I hope is innocently and wholly unsuspicious.

She casts a passing glance at her hand and turns her attention back to souvenirs.  "Oh, I took it off last night.  I just forgot to put it back on."  A sly smile spreads across her face as she drifts close to whisper, "You made me forget this morning."  She pops a kiss on my cheek and hands me her items accumulated thus far.  "Hold these."

Both her hands free, she turns with gusto to the knick-knack collection.  

"You know where it is?"  Okay, that definitely sounded suspicious.  Better cover it before you draw her attention.  "'Cause I don't want you to lose it."  Oh, brilliant, Rabb.  

"Yeah.  It's in the bathroom, next to your shaving kit."  

Argh! I groan inwardly, hoping I can keep the grimace off my face.  _How_ could I have missed it?  Fleetingly I wonder if there's any way I can distract her here and run back to our room to get it, and then…what? 

"Are you getting anything?" I glance up to find her large brown eyes staring inquisitively at me.

I shake my head no, and note a flicker of disappointment.  "Knick-knacks aren't really my thing, Mac," I add dryly and that seems to appease her.  "No, no," I say hastily, seeing her about to replace her bell, "keep looking around.  If I see something I want I'll grab it."  I make a show of looking around the gift shop, taking in the shirts and sweatshirts, magnets, even models of 17th- and 18th-century ships, decks of cards and clocks, before my eyes flicker back to Mac.  She's the only thing in here that I really want.  I think of my last statement and approach her, awkwardly slipping my arms around her (trying not to drop all her souvenirs).

"What are you doing?" she giggles.  I bend my head around and plant a kiss on the juncture of her jaw and neck.  "Well, I told you when I see something I want I'll grab it."  

"Harm," she says pulling away and smiling radiantly at me.  A few people are looking at us.  I do my best to ignore them, but I have to say this isn't the usual decorum I display out in public with a woman.

"Don't you at least want a magnet or something?"  She holds one up.

No, I want you in my bed and in my arms and in my life forever.  That would be the best souvenir of all from Nantucket.  I take the magnet and add it to her pile.

"Yeah, thanks."  

**********

Another opportunity has gone by in the quest for the ring.  

Well, I mean, I could've said no to Mac, but if presented with the chance to share a tub with a wet, naked marine or shower alone, which, I ask, would you choose?

That's what I thought.

So, I'm out in the bedroom shrugging into my sports coat and straightening my tie, semi-devising an alternate plan for capturing the ring, while she finishes getting ready.  

Okay, so mostly I'm just reliving our little bath time experience.  But, just behind those memories is the lingering thought of how to get a hold of Mac's ring.  Really.

This time while I was shaving I took note of my surroundings and sure enough, I found it lying in the soapdish along with her watch.  However, Mac was still toweling off in there with me so any moves to confiscate it obviously were delayed.  Actually, I was having a hard enough time trying not to nick myself as I watched her in the mirror without adding sneaky moves to my plate.

Damn, she made a good show of toweling off, too.  Sarah MacKenzie in and out of a towel with a tattoo visible to boot (if you know where to look…and, if I might add just a bit smugly, I do).  

Two fantasies once, now reality.

"Why are you smiling so smug?"

"Who says that I am?"

"Me.  You've got your cocky, flyboy grin on."

"My flyboy grin?"

"Yeah."

"This wouldn't be that 'very nice smile, commander' that you claim has no affect on you whatsoever."

She grins, as we both know she's kidding herself if she thinks it doesn't affect her.  I know it's a part of me she finds irresistible.  She mentioned it last night.

"That would be the one."

"Hmm.  That would contradict what you told me earlier, counselor."

"Well, if you're referring to the 'discussion' we had last night, I think any judge would rule that confession was coerced, and therefore inadmissible."

"Oh really?"  She nods smiling so wide her cheeks must hurt.  "We'll see," I promise.

"Tonight's our last night together here in Nantucket."

"All the more reason to make it a good one.  I think you'll like what I have planned," I add smugly.  

"I _know_ you'll like what _I_ have planned," she hints seductively.

"I'm sure I will."  If it involves the removal of that heart-stopping dress she has on then I'm positive I will.

"Care to share any hints?"

"And spoil the surprise, marine?  You insult me."

"Mmm.  Too bad.  _My_ surprise is guaranteed by Victoria's Secret to elicit jaw-dropping, pulse-racing, temperature-rising results.  And that's only part of the surprise," she whispers breathily.

Damn.  I wonder what the other part is.

"Well," I say, trying to summon a few competent sentences from the void she just made in my brain.  "Well.  Uh… "

"Are you ready to go eat?" She asks sweetly, helping me out.

"Yeah.  Yeah, let me just grab our room key."

I lock the door behind us and flash a quick smile at those dark brown pools following my every move.  I allow her to precede me, mostly so I can admire the woman before me, but I can't go any further without letting her know how much she and this time alone has meant to me.

"Sarah," I say, stopping.  "Thank you."  Thank you seems ridiculously inadequate.  I futilely try to think of something that will convey what I am feeling.  Her expression softens and I'm so amazed that she seems to know exactly what I mean that I hardly dare hope that's the case.  She slips her arms around my neck and gazes at me intently.  "You're welcome," she replies.  "And thank you."  Maybe things are getting back to the way they used to be.  I close my eyes as I feel her warm lips press against mine.  Then again, out with the old and in with the new.

"Oh, I'm sorry.  Excuse me," a voice interrupts.  We break our kiss, but not our embrace.  "Good evening, Mrs. Paxton," I say.

"Good evening, Mr. MacKenzie.  Mrs. MacKenzie.  Going out?"  

"Yes, we are, Mrs. Paxton," I reply without taking my eyes off Sarah.

"Would you like a fire ready in your room at your return?"

"Yes, Mrs. Paxton.  Yes, we would," Sarah answers and Mrs. Paxton goes bustling off, her call for Sam still ringing in our ears.  

"It's not over yet, Harm," she reminds me softly.  "We haven't even got to the good stuff," she adds with a playful smile.

Yes, we have.  This weekend was just the icing on the cake.  Or maybe she's right.  Maybe this weekend is only the beginning of something culminated by marriage and children and a lifetime together.  I smile at the thought and stare into those chocolate orbs I could drown in forever.  "It's been incredible already, Sarah."

**********

"Think we should get out of bed?"

"Mmfftshmnpotffdn?"

"What?"  I have no idea what he just said.  He lifts his mouth away from the pillow and tries again.  

"Who wants to get up out of bed now?  I can hardly move, Mac.  Let's sleep in."

"You're going to have to get up sometime.  We have a plane to catch this afternoon."

A short breeze blows across my neck and shoulder as he sighs.  "I know.  Don't remind me."

I roll on my side to face him trying not to wince at the amount of effort the gesture takes.  Things got a bit more…intense…last night.  "It's 0913."

He opens one eye.  "So?"

"So, we have just over six hours to decide how we're going to spend our last day here on the island."

"I already gave you my suggestion.  Staying in bed is a perfectly acceptable way to pass the time."  He closes his eye again.

"A lazy way."

"It's Sunday.  The day of rest.  We can be lazy."

I make a point of sighing loudly.  "Squids."  A green eye peers out at me.

"I beg your pardon, marine?"

"Well, I should have known they don't have the conditioning to keep up with a marine."

"It has nothing to do with being a squid.  I'm an old man, Mac."

I snort.  "Well, you still do pretty well for an 'old man'."

"Not going to put me out to pasture yet?"

Even with half his face buried in his pillow I can still see a self-satisfied smile peeking out.  

"No, not yet."

It's quiet for a moment while he digests this.  "Hey Mac?"

"Yeah?"

"Did I ever tell you that joke about how a marine's like the energizer bunny?" 

"Yellow light, commander."

"Yellow light?  What?  Your comment on conditioning just reminded me of it."

"Red light, commander."

"You're giving me a red light?  It was green lights all the way last night.  And really, Mac, aren't we past the point of traffic signals?"  He props his head up on one elbow and traces a finger across my breastbone.  "I mean, circumstances would seem to indicate yes."  He leans over me and softly presses his lips against mine before trailing them down my neck and collarbone.  I caress the silky strands of his short hair before guiding his mouth back to mine.

"Perhaps" I concede.  He smiles, kisses me again and returns his attention to his favorite attributes, his touch tender and loving.  

We compromise by spending a little less than half our remaining time on the island in bed.

***********

"You found them?"

"Yes!" I state triumphantly, going to flash my previously unaccounted for undergarments in victory before remembering that waving my dirty underwear around is probably not something I really want to do.  I wad them up into a ball and stuff them into a corner of my bag.  "Is that everything?" I survey our room, noting with satisfaction that it looks respectable.

"Just my shaving kit and your makeup bag," he says coming out of the bathroom.  "Here."  He hands me the makeup bag and I stuff it carefully into a side pocket of my carry-on.  

I watch Harm organize his belongings, admiring the long lean line of his figure, the recently shampooed hair slicked back with styling mousse, the clean-shaven face appearing smooth and achingly soft.  I remind myself that just because we're returning home doesn't mean that's it for us.  Going back to JAG doesn't mean we can't be together.  But in a way, it does.  Or does it?

"What happens when we get back?"

"What do you mean?"

"To DC.  To JAG."

He looks away for a moment and shrugs.  "We carry on as before."

My heart almost plunges into my stomach.  "What?" I whisper.  He looks at me sharply then.

"You don't think I mean—Mac!  I don't mean it like that.  I just mean we keep pursuing this relationship.  Quietly."

I almost laugh in relief.  For a moment I did think he meant something else.  Something awful and wholly unacceptable after this weekend.

"Harm, I don't want to hide and sneak around.  It's not against the rules for us to pursue a romantic relationship."

"I know Mac.  I'm not saying that we do hide and sneak around.  All I'm saying is that we don't advertise the fact we're seeing each other outside of work.  I could personally do without all the office scrutiny, I don't know about you."

Okay, I admit I'm not exactly thrilled about the twenty questions and the eyes and ears following our every move and conversation—they do that now and it's annoying.

"Well I'm not going to lie if someone asks," I say.  "If one of our friends ask," I amend thinking that if Singer asks I certainly would seriously consider it if I thought it put us at an advantage.

"I'm not asking you to, Mac.  And I wouldn't want you to.  I don't intend to lie to Sturgis or the admiral or Harriet if they ask a direct question.  But at the same time, I'm gonna downplay or deflect as much heat away from the topic as I can."

Knowing Harm's penchant for vague statements and half-truths I'm sure the office will have quite a challenge trying to decipher his generally ambiguous answers on the subject of "us".  

**********

I note the bright sunny blue sky with a stab of sadness.  My prayers for a hurricane or some otherworldly natural disaster have gone unanswered.  I suppose for the people of Nantucket, that is good news.  For Harm and I it means most assuredly that we will be departing for Logan and Dulles as scheduled.

Harm's settling the bill with Mrs. Paxton.  I gave him my credit card so we could continue the charade of a married couple a little bit longer.  I admit I didn't want to disappoint Mrs. Paxton's assumption.  Even though it doesn't have quite the same ring as Mr. and Mrs. Rabb, Mr. and Mrs. MacKenzie has a distinctive sound.  And Harm didn't seem to mind that everyone (well, okay, maybe not _every_one) was laboring under the impression we were newlyweds or something.  I decided that if he wasn't going to take issue with it then I shouldn't either.  

"Ready?" Harm asks, coming to stand beside me.  He hands me back my Visa and tucks the receipt into his shirt pocket.

"Yeah."

***********

We trudge down the walk and up the steps into my building.  Our entire trip has been conducted mostly in silence, both of us winding down from our weekend and mentally preparing for the day tomorrow.  At least that's what I've been doing since we boarded our 727 to Dulles.  Trying to retrain my body and mind not to act on impulses I gave way to over the weekend.  The impulse to touch Harm is one of the strongest and hardest to restrain.

I stop by Mrs. Eckland's apartment and pick up Jingo, Harm waiting patiently outside in the hall as I thank Mrs. Eckland and say goodbye.  Jingo wags his tail happily at the sight of Harm, sniffs his shoes and pant leg and looks to me as if we're about to embark on an exciting journey, instead of coming back from one.

Together we all make the short jaunt to my apartment as I pick up where I left off in my thoughts.  I'm a marine, and I will conquer it.  Tomorrow I will be the squared-away, no-nonsense marine colonel JAG lawyer.  Harm will be, well, not nearly as squared-away and no-nonsense—well, suffice to say, Harm will be Harm.  Late as always, just that smidge or two behind on paperwork, always in control of his emotions, and the accomplished and charming Navy attorney.

But that's tomorrow.  

Tonight…

I smile as I close the door to my apartment behind us.  Harm drops our bags on the ground.  Both he and Jingo look expectantly at me, as though waiting for my decision about something.  As I stare back into those intense, green eyes, I make it.  

Tonight he's mine and no one else's.  


	26. Chapter Twentysix

PART TWENTY-SIX:

1311 ZULU (0811 EST)

JAG HQ

FALLS CHURCH, VA

"Morning ma'am," several people call as I burst through the double doors that lead into the bullpen of JAG headquarters.  I nod in response and take a conscious effort to slow my hurried step.  I also make the decision to take a deep breath and relax and put on the best smile I can muster this morning.  I pray that it's adequate enough to stave off any concern and curiosity from any of my conscientious coworkers.  My morning isn't going as smoothly as I would like.  

I glance at Harm's dark office and note with relief and satisfaction that, late as I am this morning, I still beat the perennially tardy Commander Rabb.  Good.  Right now, I don't think I could handle seeing him.  Not with the images of last night and this morning and this past weekend still fresh in mind.  I have some grasp of my emotions but if I were to see him right now I know there'd be no way for me to hide my feelings.  

I feel like I have "I had sex with Harmon Rabb, Jr." stamped in bold blue ink on my forehead.  

I know it's a little late to be considering all this now, but I never thought I would have as much…concern over facing Harm at work after…after this weekend.  I mean, when Harm and I face off now, I'm going to look at him and know what lies beyond that smug grin and the passion beyond his skills as an attorney.  I'm going to see him in the courtroom and know every contour of that sculpted body that lies underneath his uniform.  He's going to look at me and things that were once well-hidden and deeply buried are now going to be lying just under the surface, no longer quick enough to escape my notice.  He's struggling to hide it—his feelings for me.  Or maybe he's not struggling at all—maybe he's given up on hiding them at all.  It seemed perfectly clear this weekend.

He loves me.

He hasn't said a word to that effect (or maybe he has, if I include our conversation on the Admiral's porch) but it seems so clear now with everything he does.  And says, even without uttering those three little words.  Still, knowing this as I do, it unnerves me just a little that after everything that has transpired between us, up to and including this weekend, I have yet to hear him proclaim it.

Plus, I can't find my Marine Corps ring.  I've looked everywhere for it and the only thing I can think of is that I left it at the B-and-B in Nantucket.  I tried calling Harm this morning, after he left my apartment, to see if it somehow got mixed in with his stuff, but I couldn't get a hold of him either at his home or on his cell.  I don't remember having it on last night, either, when we got to my apartment.  Of course, I don't remember wearing too much for too long once we reached my apartment…

I feel a wave of heat wash over me and feel my mouth start to curve up into a smile before I jar my hip against a desk and recollect where I am.  

Stop drooling, Colonel.  Or at least wait until you reach the safety of your office.  I make a beeline to my office and shut the door, managing to sidestep most of my coworkers and especially avoid Harriett who seems to have a sixth sense for these sort of situations.

I toss my briefcase onto one of the chairs in front of my desk.  Whew.  Sa—

"Colonel!  Just who I was looking for."  I whirl around and see Sturgis standing in my doorway, a short pile of folders clutched in his hand.  "Something wrong?"

"Huh?  Oh, no, no, of course not."  Take a deep breath and get a hold of yourself, MacKenzie!  "What can I help you with, Sturgis?"

"Have you seen Harm?"

"What?"  What, what, what?!

"I need to ask him some questions on this case and I was wondering if you knew where he was?"

"No.  Why would I know where he is?  I'm not his keeper."  Sturgis gives me a strange look.

"Okaaay…just wondering if you had seen him."  

"Well, I'm not."

"Are you all right, Mac?"  

"Of course.  I'm fine.  Why do you ask?"  

Okay, I know what I said to Harm about not lying to our friends about our new relationship, but that was before I was subjected to the third degree first thing in the morning.  I'm beginning to see the logic behind Harm's claim that denial is everything.  I cross my arms over my chest and lean against the edge of my desk.  Cool, calm and collected—you are the epitome of these, MacKenzie.

"You seem…on edge."

"No," I manage a small titter, "I'm just…" what am I?  What am I?! "Just tired.  I had a busy weekend."  Ah, good excuse.  Excellent thinking, Colonel.

"Oh, what did you do?"

I experience a peculiarly interesting physiological response as I actually feel my heart seize up in my chest and all my organs shrink momentarily from the lack of blood flow.  My brain, on the other hand, starts pounding forcibly within my skull.

"Uhh…"

"You and Harm do something this weekend?"

My mouth goes dry and I have to wet my lips several times before I can finally rasp out a question.

"Why do you ask that?"

"You both took off out of here early Friday."

"Oh, uh, that was, uh, that was so I could pick up my car," I reply, recollecting my predetermined response should anyone ask.  "We—I—had to take it to the garage."

"Oh?  Routine checkup, or something more?"

"Checkup."

Where the **_hell_** is Harm?!

"30,000 mile service?"

"Uh, yeah."  _What_ is _with_ the third degree?  "Um, so what case did you need help on?" I ask, hoping to distract him from all topics concerning me.

"Well, I needed to ask Harm about the Randall case."

"Randall case?  I'm not familiar with it."

"I didn't think you were.  You weren't listed as part of the defense or prosecution, so I didn't think you would know too much about it.  I was hoping you had seen or knew where Harm was so I could ask him some questions.  I think the way he handled the trial is similar to the approach I'm going to have to take with Seamen Alderez."

"Oh, well, I haven't—"

"Oh, there he is.  Excuse me, Colonel?"  He's gone before I can even nod.  Thank God.  Since when did Sturgis moonlight as an interrogator?

I watch as he and Harm converse for a moment, Harm not even glancing my way or giving any indication that he wants to see me…or that he _is_ seeing me.  Why does he have to be so good at hiding his feelings around everyone else?  Harriet saunters over with a document that she hands to Harm.  The three of them spend a couple minutes chatting before Harm gives Harriet his briefcase and cover and, chuckling at something one of them said, follows Sturgis into his office.  

I quickly find something to busy myself with as Harriet passes by to deposit Harm's things into his office.

"Morning, ma'am," she calls as she breezes by again.

"Uh, yes, uh, morning, Harriet!" I call.

Okay.  Enough of this.  Get to work, MacKenzie.

**********

About forty-five minutes later, after three trips back and forth to either his or Sturgis's office (which I don't have to add is also three trips back and forth past mine), Harm saunters in.

"Hey Mac," he says by way of greeting.  

"Harm," I reply, not taking my eyes off the deposition I'm reading.

"So…how was your weekend?" he asks with a very typical flyboy grin.  "Do anything special?"

"Nothing too exciting," I answer, finding his cheerful mood hard to fight off.   "You?" I ask with a small smile.

"Went flying," he replies with a mischievous twinkle.

"Oh?  Anywhere special?"

"North a ways," he returns as Harriet raps on the door behind him.  "Sorry sir, ma'am, but here are the names you were looking for, Commander."

"Thank you, Harriet," he says, flashing her that infamous smile before turning back to me.

"Catch you later, Colonel," he winks and saunters out, whistling a tune I don't recognize.

"The commander's sure in a good mood," Harriet comments.

"Yeah," I acknowledge, fighting to keep my expression neutral.  "Flying always does that to him."

**********

"Colonel.  Haven't seen you all morning," the admiral comments taking a sip of his coffee.

"Sir," I say, reaching for my mug.  "I've been going through the Miller depositions."

"Ah."

"Commander," he greets and I almost splash coffee on my hand before said commander responds with Sturgis's baritone.  "Sir.  Mac."

"Commander," I reply taking a sip of my coffee while simultaneously trying to ignore the looks I feel directed towards me.

"Were you able to find Commander Rabb and get his input for the Alverez matter?" The admiral asks Sturgis.

"Yes, sir.  Commander Rabb gave me his notes on the Randall case—I think it will help to build a good strategy for representing Seamen Alverez."

"Good."

There's a moment of silence while we all take a drink from our cups and mull over this information.  

"What the hell is that noise?"  The admiral asks suddenly, and we all pause mid-sip to listen.  "Is that Rabb again?"

It's then I realize the noise he refers to is Harm whistling.  Quite cheerfully and tunelessly.

Sturgis chuckles.  "Sounds like him.  He's in a pretty good mood this morning."

"On a Monday?  That's unusual."  The admiral mutters.  Then he looks at me and raises an eyebrow.  "You wouldn't know anything about this, would you, colonel?"

"Hello sirs, ma'am," Harriet chirps before I barely open my mouth.  Sturgis hands her a coffee mug and the admiral fills it.  I hope that Harriet's appearance has distracted the admiral from this topic, but it's all in vain.  You can't sway a two-star.  Especially a SEAL.

Harriet finally notices their scrutiny of me and asks, "Um, am I interrupting something?"

"No, not at all, Lieutenant.  I was just asking the colonel here if she had any idea why Rabb is in such good humor this Monday morning."

Harriet giggles and announces with a smile, "He's been whistling all morning."  

I flush with embarrassment, knowing full well the reasons for his happy mood.  He was quite a bustle of activity in my apartment early this morning.  Knowing him as well as I do I'd say he enjoyed every harried second.  Or the _reason_ for every harried second.  I have a feeling that Harmon Rabb was in his element when he dashed out of there with a fleeting kiss this morning.

"Didn't you say he went flying, colonel?" Harriet asks, taking a sip of her coffee and wrinkling her nose.  She looks at me questioningly as to who made it before noticing Sturgis's discreet gesture to the admiral.  I hand her the sugar.  "Oh!" 

"What?" I ask, looking at her inquisitively.

"Where's your ring?"  Three pairs of eyes zero in on my naked hand.  It's all I can do not to drop my coffee and tuck both hands behind me.

"Lose something, colonel?"

"Ah, no, sir, I just misplaced it."

"Rather unlike you, colonel."

"Well, I, uh, was pretty busy over the weekend and I must have misplaced it, but I'm sure I'll find it soon," I add with more confidence than I feel.  I spent a good hour or so alternately debating about calling the B-and-B in Nantucket and seeing if anyone has found it, or cornering Harm to see if maybe he's seen it.  Cornering Harm, though, means stepping out of my office and into his, attracting the attention of every coworker I have—and that's if I'm _lucky_ to find him in his office and not out in the bullpen.  He's been bouncing all over headquarters.  

I tried emailing him a couple hours ago, but I still haven't heard back from him.  

"Oh, do anything special?" The admiral asks taking another sip of his coffee and leaning against the counter.

"Sir?"

"This weekend.  Did you do anything special?"

"Oh, no, no.  Just the usual chores and errands and such.  Kind of boring, really.  Actually, that's probably how I misplaced my ring.  I was cleaning and I took it off, you know, because I didn't want the chemicals in the cleaning agents to ruin the finish and now I just don't remember where I put it and Harriet did you cut your hair?"  

Just shut up, shut up, MacKenzie.  You're babbling.

"Uh, no ma'am."

"Oh.  Well.  It looks good, Harriet."

"Thank you, colonel."

"I just thought you might have had something special planned seeing as you and Rabb decided to start your weekend early Friday."

Goddammit!  I knew it!  I _knew_ it!  When I see Harm I will _kill_ him!  We should have just told everyone we were seeing each other.  Did I not _tell_ him that!?  And did I not also mention that the two of us leaving early would attract everyone's—especially our CO's—attention?!

And speaking of that slippery bastard where the hell is he?  He should be getting his fair share of the grilling.

"Oh, um, sorry about that, Admiral.  I had to take my car in earlier…at lunch, and Harm offered to give me a ride to pick it up, and then they called later on, so Harm took me to pick it up, and traffic was kind of heavy and by the time we got done with…everything…it was almost 1630 and Harm, er, I just--well we--I suppose…"

"Decided to call it a day?"

"Um, yes, sir."

Damn him, damn him, damn him.

I'm saved from further explanation by the ever-increasing volume of Harm's whistling, and the sudden cease of the noise when Harm appears in the doorway and sees the scowls directed at him.  I need not say whom from.

"Commander, do I have to remind you, _again,_ that, despite, perhaps, the boost in solidarity and morale if may offer, we don't whistle while we work in JAG ops?"

"No, sir.  Sorry, sir.  Won't happen again."

"See to it that it doesn't."

"Aye-aye, sir."

Harriet and Sturgis attempt to hide their smiles behind their mugs.  I just attempt to hide, period, but it's kind of hard for obvious reasons.  

"Harriet, Sturgis," he says nodding to each in turn.  Sturgis raises his eyebrows and Harriet smiles.  "Mac."  He reaches past me for his mug and the carafe.  I try not to focus on the feel of his body as his shoulder brushes against mine.  Instead, looking around the kitchenette I find three pairs of curious eyes focused on us.  Well, two pairs of curious and one pair suspicious.

"Well, back to work people."  The admiral directs gruffly.  He takes one last swallow of his coffee before bidding us adieu with a curt nod.

"Thanks again on those notes, Harm," Sturgis says, pausing long enough to refill his mug and Harriet's.

"No problem, Sturg."

"Let me know if you need anything else, Commander," Harriet adds before following Sturgis out.

"Will do, Harriet, thanks."

We both watch them leave before turning to the other.

"Alone at las—Ow!  Hey, what was that for?!"  He rubs the spot on his arm where the back of my hand just connected.

That question seems so ridiculously stupid that I can't help but hit him again.  

"_What_ is with all the whistling?!" I hiss.

"_What_ is with you hitting me?  Not enough kick in your coffee?"  He takes a gulp before spitting it out again.

"Scratch that.  I see the admiral made his special brew.  Maybe there's too much kick.  And what do you mean what's with my whistling?  Nothing.  I'm just in a good mood."

"I know.  _Everybody_ knows, Harm.  They've all noticed."

"So?"

"So!?"

"Is it a crime for me to be in a positive frame of mind?"

"No," I reply a bit defensively, "just…tone it down a little."

"Tone it down?" he repeats with a frown.

"They're all…suspicious!"

"Who's 'they'?"

"The admiral.  Harriet.  Sturgis.  They all keep…looking at me…and asking me all these questions…"

"Will you listen to yourself," Harm says with a smile.

"I'm serious, Harm!"

"So am I.  You sound like you're paranoid."

Oh, how typical.  The 'it's-all-in-your-imagination' response.  I feel like hitting him again and he must notice because he leans against the counter and crosses his ankles and says, in a tone that mostly hides his amusement, "What kinds of questions did they ask?"

"Just…you know what.  Forget it."

"No, no, Mac.  I'm serious.  I want to know.  What did they ask?"

"Look, this is not the place to be having this discussion," I hiss.  

Harm dips his head close to mine and whispers just as quietly, but far more breathily against my ear, "Well, where do you suggest we continue it?  I think the maintenance closet just might be free…"

Oh, fine.  Fine!  Don't take me seriously.  He lets out a chuckle as he straightens.

"I have work to do.  If you'll excuse me, Commander."

***********


	27. Chapter Twentyseven

I return from lunch with a brisk step, glancing stealthily at Mac's closed door—blinds drawn—with a smile.

One that she'd probably knock off my face if she saw it, but I just can't seem to help myself today.  

I feel like whistling again, but I'm pretty sure that both Mac and the admiral would probably descend on me like hungry wolves.  Best never to tempt fate with a SEAL and a marine already irked with you.

Well, I know how to win the marine over.  I waltz into my office and shut the door behind me, reaching into my pants pocket.  Yes, I know several ways to get on her good side.  I pull out the ring I find there.  I certainly have her number.

Ring size number, that is.

I grin again, marveling that everything I've always wanted is within my reach.  Mac and I are seeing one another and, so far, we haven't self-destructed our entire friendship and relationship.  In fact, things are just the opposite—everything's going well and I think the both of us are happier than we've been in a long time.  I think she's…I think, if I asked her to marry me, I have a better than fifty chance she'd say yes.

But better than fifty is still not high enough.  I just don't know for certain that she wants to walk down the aisle again, so soon after everything with Brumby.  I just don't know if she wants to walk down the aisle with me.

The smile on my face fades and I take a seat in my chair and contemplate my future plans, rolling Sarah's Marine Corps ring around in my fingers.  

Since she is still pretty annoyed with me, I decided to use the opportunity of lunching alone to finally figure out her ring size.  A bit of stealth and luck yesterday contributed to her ring ending up in my possession.  I feel kind of bad taking it, since I know she's been looking all over for it.  She left messages on both my home and cell phone this morning, and even sent an email asking if I had seen it, none of which I replied to.  And besides, I can't very well put off this opportunity for any longer than today or she's liable to catch the first plane to Nantucket to rip our hotel room apart searching for it.

Nope, this way I can just claim that, oops, I did have it—it must have got mixed up with my shaving kit and since I was in such a rush this morning I didn't realize it until…later.

And so, with ring in hand, I completed the mission I set out to do—figure out Sarah's ring size.  Okay, maybe that wasn't the original, complete mission I set out to do, but I was pressed for time so I didn't get a chance to pick out a ring.

It's not that I didn't look, I did.  I did look, unable to believe I was at a jeweler's for the sole purpose of sizing Sarah's ring so I would know the right fit for an engagement ring for her.

I _was_ pressed for time—I drove to a jeweler about twenty minutes away from JAG, and barely made it back to JAG on time.  And I wasn't sure which of the many beautiful rings on display was, well, The One for The One.  None of them leapt out at me like everyone says it will and said, _"Buy me.  This one **is** Sarah"_.  The ring…the ring has to be her.  

It's just that it never seemed I would ever arrive at this point—ready to propose marriage to Sarah MacKenzie.

Of course I suppose I'm not ready; I still have to be properly equipped with a ring when I propose.  

And I have to decide when that will be.

**********

I tentatively rap on Mac's door, knowing she can tell whom it is just by my knock, so I also know not to expect an enthusiastic welcome.

There's a pause, in which I'm sure she's heaving a sigh, before a curt, "Come in," is issued.

"Hey, Mac," I say, closing the door behind me.

"Was there something you needed in regards to a case, Commander Rabb?"

Oh, ouch.  It's bad enough when she calls me by my rank with that icy, clipped tone, but when she includes my surname it's like she's trying to drive a stake through my hand.  The blunt end of the stake.

"Actually, I got your message about your ring," I begin hesitantly.  "Earlier, I mean, so I checked my stuff at lunch and I—"

"Did you find it?" She asks.  I have her full attention now.

"Voila!" I produce her beloved Marine Corps ring with a flourish.

She jumps up from her chair to take it and slips it on her finger with a happy sigh.  "Thank goodness," she breathes.  "I thought I lost it.  I looked everywhere for it."

"Must have gotten mixed up with my things in the rush this morning," I reply, patting myself on the back for having thought out such a plausible excuse.  It's not technically lying.  Is it?  

"Anyway, you can thank me later…tonight…" I hint with a teasing smile, but she just frowns at me.  Apparently finding her ring has not endeared me to her, not has it quelled the anger aimed at me since our little chat in the breakroom.

"You know, we never did finish our conversation from earlier," I continue, deciding to grab the bull by the horns and get this out, and hopefully over with.

"What conversation?"

"From the breakroom."

"Oh, when you mocked me for my, how did you put it?  Paranoia?"

"Maaaac…"

"I really don't have anything else to say on the matter, Commander."

"Mac, come on.  I'm listening.  You have my full attention.  Tell me what's bothering you."  I take a seat in one of her chairs and cross my leg, resting my ankle on my knee, and look at her expectantly.

"What's bothering me?" she repeats, staring hard at me. 

"Yeah.  You said everyone was asking you…questions."

"About you!" she snaps, throwing down her pen and sitting back in her chair with a huff.

"What do they want to know about me?" I ask, puzzled.

"Why, for one, you're in such a good mood," she retorts.  "They all think I have something to do with it!"

"You do," I say with a smile, thinking of this morning and last night and this whole entire weekend spent wrapped up in each other's arms, and the realizations I've come to since we've been together.  

"Do you have to advertise it?" she exclaims, remembering at the last second to keep her voice down.  "I thought you wanted to be discreet!"

"I do.  I am," I reply, becoming more skeptical that my being in a good mood is the real issue here.  "I can't help the fact you make me happy, Mac."  That admission takes the wind out of her sails, and I see her expression soften as she locks eyes with me.  

She smiles gently, and continues in a moderate tone, "Harm, you are being anything but discreet."

"How do you mean?"

 "The whistling…the…smiling…the winks…the…the…"

"How is that advertising our relationship?  I haven't told anyone that 'Boy, Mac sure made my weekend this weekend'.  I haven't told anyone—or even hinted—that we're seeing each other.  No one's asked me if there's anything going on between us—well, no one's asked beyond the usual questions, anyway, and it's been a couple weeks since then.  Besides, what does it matter if our coworkers think there's something going on between us?  I thought _you_ didn't want to hide our relationship, anyway," I return, mostly for the hell of it, just to see how she will respond.

"I don't," she insists, crossing her arms over her chest defensively.

"So?  What's the problem then, Mac?" 

**********

I stare in disbelief at my ignorant partner.  How can he be so dense?  And I love this man.  And not just love—this is the man I want to share my future with—the man I want to build my future with.  We stare at each other for a long moment, Harm making it obvious he intends to wait out my silence until he receives a satisfactory answer.

Damn him.

"I just…I mean, I don't like…what I mean to say is…" I trail off, becoming more irritated with him and myself.  "Why is it up to me to answer all the questions about us?  We're a couple now, we should _both_ be confronting these issues _together_.  We should have a united front and a united approach on how to deal with questions about our relationship."

"Mac, we never agree on anything."

Grrrrr.  God help me from stapling his head to my corkboard.

"We do, too, on occasion.  Rare occasion."

"No, we don't."

"Yes we—look," I amend testily, not about to be pulled into some 'uh-huh/uh-uh' argument, "the point is that you and I should be working out a way to handle this."

"We did.  Yesterday."

"What did we work out?  That you want to keep our relationship secret and I don't."

"Well, not exactly.  I said I want to keep our relationship _quiet_.  But if doing so bothers you so much then we can come clean with everyone.  You want to make one announcement to everyone or just inform Sturgis, Harriet, the admiral and the like when the opportunity presents itself?"  

Wait a second.  Mr. Covert-Op here just wants to inform everyone that we're…he and I are…tell our CO and everybody that…

"Well, I never meant to imply we had to do everything my way," I hasten to add.  "All I'm saying is we should come to a compromise."  

His face scrunches up in confusion.  "I thought that's what we did yesterday," he says in a bewildered voice.   "Seriously Mac, I can handle it if you want to let people know about us."

"And you're saying I _can't_ handle it?" I state furiously.

He shrugs.  "Well, what are you freaking out about?"

"I'm not freaking out about anything!" I explode.

"You're upset," he notes.  I finger my stapler.

"Of course I am!"

"Why?"

"Argghh!  Because…because everyone…I don't…arrghh!" I finally spit out.

"You know what I think is the real issue here?" he says, and I can see a smug smile threatening to surface but it's quickly hidden.  "I think I know what this is _really_ about."

Oh, Commander Observant has finally got a clue?  This should be good.

"Oh, really?  Enlighten me."

"You're freaking out about us."

"What?!"

"Yeah, I think that you're finding it difficult to deal with our intimate relationship with regards to our professional one.  You always thought it would be me who would freak out and it's not," he says with an air of confidence that makes me wish I had at least grazed him with the stapler.  Or the file cabinet.

***********

It's very quiet after I make that declaration.  At first she looks like she'd like to take that stapler in her hand and throw it at me, but the expression deflates along with the sentiment and instead she sighs and leans back in her chair.  I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

"Sarah, tell me what's really bothering you," I implore and her eyes flicker up to meet mine, large and brown and teeming with a mix of emotions before she glances down at her lap and bites her lower lip.

She takes another deep breath as though to steel herself, and looks up at me and then at the door, a detached expression replacing the vulnerable look on her face.  She gestures to something behind me and I turn and see Sturgis twisting the knob open and standing in the doorway, looking apologetic and mildly curious.

"Sorry to disturb you, colonel, but I need to borrow the commander for a moment, unless…?" he trails off, looking from Mac to me as though either of us will just jump at the chance to inform him that, as a matter of fact, we were in the middle of discussing something of the utmost importance—our romantic relationship in regards to our professional one, and golly, we could sure use a third opinion.

Mac nods as I say, "Yeah, I'll be with you in a minute, Sturg."  He nods in reply and takes his leave, closing the door carefully behind him.  I turn back to Mac who stares at me with the same blank look as the one she fixed on Sturgis.  

Great.

So much for continuing our conversation.  I know that look.  Sarah MacKenzie has closed the doors for the question and answer session.  Anything further will be handled by a representative of the firm.  Please direct all questions and comments accordingly.

"We'll finish talking at my place tonight, over dinner," I say, getting to my feet and doing my best to ignore the bones cracking in my spine.  Damn office chairs.

I wait for a reply, but the neutral expression never leaves her face.  For a moment I think she's going to refuse, but she gives a slight nod instead and says, "Sturgis is waiting."

**********

Before I even reach the door, I detect the faint smells of something heavenly cooking.  It immediately sets my mouth watering and my stomach growling, reminding me I worked through lunch.

It also annoys me to no end.  Harm obviously is trying to appease my irritation with him by appealing to my voracious appetite.

And dammit, it's working.

I debate about turning around right now and going home (after a quick stop at Beltway Burgers) but ultimately decide it's childish, wouldn't solve anything, and if I didn't show up anyway, Harm would just go looking for me.

Instead I square my shoulders, take a deep breath and rap lightly on the door.

"C'mon in, Mac," I hear him call, his voice sounding muffled by more than the closed door.

Slowly I twist the knob open and step in, taking note of a new set of roses, these a mixture of pink, white and red, a taper candle set on either side before my eyes flicker to Harm who has his head buried in a cookbook.

He looks up when I lay my purse on an uncluttered edge of the counter.  "Hey."  He leans over the counter to kiss me but I take a seat on the barstool out of reach.  

I'm still mad at him.  For not taking me seriously, for acting like a jerk all day.

For being right.

That one irritates me the most and even though I know it's not rational or fair, I still blame him.  

"What's all this?" I say, indicating dinner and its arrangements.

"Nothing," he replies, hiding his disappointment behind a slow rise and fall of his shoulders as he sighs.

"It doesn't look like nothing."

"Just a little dinner," he insists, returning his attention to the stove.

"Need any help?"

"No, I've got everything under control."

I'll bet you have, I mutter silently, but I leave it at that, knowing that if I say those words this evening will rapidly deteriorate into something we may not be able to recover from.

Silence builds until it feels like it's covering everything with a thick, grimy film.  Finally, unable to stand it any longer, I ask, "So what did you want to talk about?" 

He glances up at me as he reaches for the pepper grinder and shakes his head.  "I guess what's bothering you."  He peeks at me from under his lashes and waits for a response.

For a while none is forthcoming.  I just watch his long, tan, muscled arm work the grinder, his faded blue jeans acting as his dishtowel as he dusts the fine particles of pepper off his hands onto them.  

"You honestly can't guess?"  I ask, already knowing he can be as dense as a lead pipe, especially in matters of the heart.

He sighs in exasperation and breathes out a clipped, "No."

"It obviously has something to do with us—our relationship—but I don't know what exactly about that has you so up in arms.  It can't all be my whistling, Mac."

I give a short nod of agreement and look down at my clasped hands, tensely arranged in a posture of calm on the glossy countertop.  Staring so long at them, I realize I can see just the faintest silhouette of my bowed head in the reflection.

"So you aren't bothered by all the attention at work."

"No, Mac, I'm used to it."  He gives me a charming grin.  I roll my eyes.  "But I take it you're bothered by it."

"Well, yes…a little."

"Hm.  Judging by your reaction this afternoon, it seems like it bothers you more than a little."

Astute observation, Commander.  "Perhaps."

"So, what, specifically, bothers you?"

I take a deep breath and ponder how to answer this.  The truth is I'm not sure really.  I mean, there are a few aspects of it the situation that irk me, but the exact reasons _why_ remain difficult to…accept.

The real, honest-to-God-truth is that Harm hit right on the mark when he claimed I couldn't handle our personal relationship together with our professional one.  

To admit that, though, takes a bigger marine than I think I can be.

And besides, I think "handle" is an inappropriate way of describing the matter.  More like, "take issue".

"Mac?"

"Hm?  Oh, yes, well, I guess you can say that I find…that I think our…I take issue," I amend, "with our personal relationship interfering with our professional one."  I pat myself mentally on the back.  I look defiantly at Harm who has the barest hint of a smirk on his face.  I immediately feel a scowl slip across mine.

"So I was right?  You can't handle us and work."

I wrestle fiercely with the desire to rip that cookbook out of his hands and slam his face into it and am gratified when I see the self-satisfied look disappear from his face after another glance at me.  

"I can handle it just FINE!" I grind out.

He gives me a disbelieving look.

"Wasn't that why you were all up in the air about my whistling?  You were afraid that somebody at work would hear me whistling and realize we had slept together."

"So what if I don't want to advertise it!  You're right.  I don't want anyone to know about us yet.  I'm not sure how to handle, okay?  Okay?  You're right, Harm!  You're right.  Happy?"

**********

Well, admitting the problem _is_ the first step.  

"No, it's not like I've won anything, Mac.  I just want to get to the root of what's bothering you so we can do something about it before it messes up everything we have right now."  Hmm, damn, that sounded pretty good, Rabb.  Why is it I'm suddenly getting better at this relationship thing?  

And why isn't it Mac, as it usually is?  Did our finally getting together upset the delicate balance of the universe?  I'm sure there are many who would argue that case.  (I might testify at the trial.)

"I know.  I don't know why it's bothering me so much.  It just seems like everything is suddenly right there, in your face.  Two months ago we weren't even dating.  We weren't even contemplating dating.  We were still riding along that "just friends" road that we were terrified of turning off from.  Now, we spend the night together and work together.  That's a huge transition."

"So you think it's moving too fast?"

"Yes…no…I don't know.  That's why this is so confusing!  In some respects, it _doesn't_ seem like it's too fast.  It feels like…finally!  But then again, in others, it feels like we're careening down the track, barely able to hold."

Something tells me not to rush on buying that engagement ring.  But what's surprising is the disappointment I feel upon that realization.  Perhaps I've been driving us too hard too forward too fast.  Once I realize something I want, I go after it, and I don't stop for anything until I get it.  It's no secret about me.  

It's one thing when I'm the only one involved when I apply the Rabb determination, however it's an entirely different story when someone else—and especially Mac—is involved.

Which is not to say I'm gonna quit my objective, just charter a slower, steadier course to the goal.

"We can slow down, take things one day at a time," I say, staring intently into her warm brown eyes.  She gives me a crooked smile, which fades after a moment.

"See, I'm not sure if I want to slow down, though."  She glances up at me and then down at her hands.  "There's this part of me that feels that even if we let up for a second everything we have will be gone."  I open my mouth to object but she quickly hurries on, "And then there's this other part of me that knows no matter what happens this time it's going to work for us.  We'll be together—we've been through everything together and we're still here, you and I."

A part of me feels that last part may be true, too, but why risk irreparable damage to what often is a very fragile existence together but doing something stupid.  Personally, despite my act-first-think-later tendencies, I'd rather not make a hasty move that may come back to haunt me—and our relationship.  We make a fine pair, Mac and I—one generally dragging his feet into commitment and the other jumping headlong into one.  Somewhere along the line we ought to even out into an acceptable pace.

"Let's just take things one day at a time, one thing at a time, Mac.  First up is dinner."

**********

Well, that went…well, I'd say it went as I expected, but I'm not exactly sure _what_ I expected.

Did I expect Harm to be so agreeable and understanding?

Did I _want_ him to be?

What's scary is I don't know.

I'm not quite sure what I want.  I mean, I think I do.  I'm pretty sure I do.

Christ, it's right here in front of me.  I think if I just let things progress how they are, I'd be Mrs. Harmon Rabb, Jr. by this time next year, but yet suddenly I'm unsure.

I know I want to be Mrs. Harmon Rabb, Jr.  I know I love this man.  I know I want to build a family with this man.  I know I want to grow old with him.

So why am I hemming and hawing when everything appears to be pointing me that way?

***********


	28. Chapter Twentyeight

I arrive at work feeling unsettled.  It was awkward after Harm and I talked, so much so that both of us came to the silent decision to part company rather than spend the night together, only to wake the next morning alone—and feeling even more awkward because of it.

I glance into Harm's office wondering why, even with Harm's penchant for being late; he's over twenty-two minutes behind schedule.

"Can I help with something, ma'am?" Tiner's voice jolts me out of my wanderings—literally and figuratively.  I'm about one and a half steps away from plowing into the copier.  In fact, Tiner appears to be bracing for impact.

"Ahem, uh, yes, Tiner.  Have you seen Harm, er Commander Rabb?"  Dammit, why do I have to sound so guilty?  I call him Harm—it's okay to call him Harm, it is his name after all.  We've worked together for seven years.  It's perfectly acceptable—expected even—to be on a first name basis with a long-time coworker.

"No, ma'am.  The commander hasn't arrived yet."

"Really?"  I say unable to moderate the interest in my tone.  Fortunately, Tiner doesn't seem to notice.  

"No, ma'am.  Admiral Chegwidden would like to see him before court, too."

"Oh, uh, well, I'll uh, catch up with him later, then."  I pivot quickly and skid to a stop as the rounded corner of the copier lies but an inch from my hip.  Shaking the hair out of my eyes, I change direction as nonchalantly as possible and escape to my office.

**********

"Sir!"

"Not now, Tiner, I'm late for court and Captain Sebring's going to have my ass," I reply, not breaking stride.  The object here is to get in and out as quickly as possible.  

"Sir, Admiral Chegwidden would like to see you as soon as you get out of court."

"Great," I mutter, wondering if it was the usual stuff I did to piss off the man upstairs or if it was something different.

I toss my cover onto my desk; grab a file from my inbox and about face to slam into Tiner.

"Tiner," I say in annoyance.  Tiner rubs the bridge of his nose.  

"Sorry, sir," he replies.

"Step aside, Petty Officer," I order, figuring I have roughly three seconds to make it up a flight of stairs and down two hallways before Captain Sebring finds me in contempt.

"Yes, sir."  Tiner takes a precise step to the left and I blow past him, risking one quick glance at Mac's office before forcing my mind to the circumstances at hand.  I can see her head bent over her desk, presumably reading a brief or making notes on her next case.  I've been wondering about her and our situation all night, but unfortunately I can't afford to focus on it now.

*********

Apparently I won't be able to focus on it later, either.  Not 'til much later, anyway.  

Lieutenant Michael Addison decided he couldn't wait until next weekend—when I could possibly have this mess sorted out with Mac—before he decided to hop on the next bus to Felonytown.

And so the admiral put me in the next available motor-pool car to figure out how to knock him down to Misdemeanorville, or perhaps, God willing, the idyllic and balmy Letter-of-Reprimand-City.  Given Lieutenant Addison's cooperation so far, I hope he likes the harsh climate of Guilty-on-All-Counts-Bay.

At any rate, once again one of us has left "us" in relationship limbo and, as usual, that one is me.

How typical.

Mac would say how convenient, but I swear I'm not running.  Well, figuratively speaking, I amend, as I slow down to the cool-down phase of my five-mile run.  

Besides, if any one of us has a foot poised to sprint, it's Mac.  I think I've made it clear that I'm willing to pursue this relationship past its infancy.  I can't figure out what exactly is eating away at Mac about it.  It would seem that concerns about how a relationship would affect work would be the anxiety factor.  And I admit that it's worthy of concern.  But somehow I think something deeper is bothering Mac.  She really only started freaking out that day in the office.  The day after we got back from Nantucket.  Then it was like a switch was flipped.  Never mind that nearly a month prior to consummating our relationship, we were flirting like crazy anywhere we damn pleased to at JAG.  She wasn't worried about anyone finding out about "us" then, when, personally, I think the stakes were much higher.

Ugh.  I'll never figure this one out.

Why I bother even trying to make sense—especially of Mac's behavior—is beyond me.  I've never been especially good at reading Mac, a couple of lucky guesses notwithstanding.  That I've been dead on with a few assumptions these past few weeks only proves miracles Ido/I happen.  

However, from this point forward I think I'm living on borrowed miracles.

I shake my head in wry amusement, the action causing my vision to blur slightly.  It's then I realize the pace I've been pounding out.  I slow to a stop and stand, hands on hips, for a moment while I catch my breath.

Why does my age seem like it's catching up to me with a vengeance?  Wasn't I just thinking that my new relationship with Mac was making me younger?  Of course that was when things were good, everything running smoothly.  That was in Nantucket.

Maybe that youthful version of me staring back in the mirror Iwas/Ithe afterglow.

**********

I should have known.

In typical fashion, one of us puts the brakes on our careening relationship train—in this case, me.  

How ironic.

And, in typical fashion, something—or, in this case, some_one_—does something to set it rocketing off again.

That someone was, of course, the admiral, though I doubt he had any idea of what he was potentially setting into motion by sending me to Norfolk to assist Harm on a case.  

Since that night in Harm's apartment, we haven't spent more than an evening together.  Dinner here, a movie there, a couple of cases to discuss in between.  It's been nearly two weeks of cautious kisses and benign touches, Harm respecting my desire to take things a bit more slowly while I come to terms with our newfound relationship.

Frankly, it's driving me nuts.  Since when did he get so agreeable, anyway?  

He's back in fine form, the unflappable aviator/lawyer ever present in his every breath with exception to an occasional wink, a fleeting smile, or the even rarer caress, new romance at JAG is pretty much seemingly nonexistent.

Outwardly, things between Harm and I appear as they always have: like there's something going on between us.

It would be nice if that were completely true.

I've done everything I can think of to rouse a little interest out of Harm.

Hell, that outfit I wore last Thursday should have at least had him chomping at the bit.  But then again, controlling his emotions is something Harmon Rabb, Jr. does better than anyone.  And there's no one he keeps a tighter lid about than me.

Why does he have to be so damn good at it, though?

Work's gotten in the way.  Harm's been bouncing all over Virginia and headquarters, and with Bud gone, everyone's workload has doubled.

I guess I can't blame Harm's reluctance to accept any invites from me.  Right now all my behavior is probably confusing the hell out of him.  And possibly having him re-think pursuing a relationship with me.

A sliver of anxiety flitters through me, but I push the feeling aside, deciding to dwell on safer, easier topics than the mess with Harm.

I heave a sigh and adjust the vent in my navy-issued loaner car, wishing said infuriating sailor was beside me, discussing theories or telling jokes, or doing his near-daily whine about my choice in music.  Unfortunately, I'm going to have to create my own mental diversion.  Ah!  I know something that will occupy me.  Those songs and that message I still have to decipher.

I rack my brain, trying to think of one of the samples of lyrics.  Obviously I would benefit greatly from a web-based lyrics search engine, but as I'm in the car I'm going to have to research the old-fashioned method.

I concentrate hard on recalling any string of words from any of the clues, but at most I can only pull together a handful, and to be honest, I think they're just one or two words from a number of lyrics, not just one.  Well, no matter.  Maybe I can piece together the next lyric by trying to figure out the main message.

Hmm.  What do I have pieced together?  Not a whole hell of a lot on a hell of a lot, a sarcastic voice answers.  

I ignore the double meaning and focus on the task at hand.  IAs time goes by, love is all round…something something something…Sarah…/I Hmm, I think there was "Girl" in there somewhere.

Oh, hell.  I don't have anything that will help me.

*********

On Route to Norfolk

22 Minutes later.

The only problem with being alone with your thoughts is you're forced to consider them…and worse, what they might mean.  

I have been trying, with moderate success, to keep any rumination about my anxiety about Harm at bay.  Work helps greatly in that pursuit, keeping me occupied with both important and mundane factors to consider.

Driving in a car, however, leaves you with nothing but your thoughts.  No matter if you're the driver or not.  There's only so much attention to focus on the road that's really necessary.  And singing along with the radio only goes so far, too.

And trying to conquer Harm's lyric challenge is a bust without the clues.  And without a computer with Internet access.

So.  That leaves said thoughts and fears and anxieties to surface abruptly to the top of consciousness, with nothing to hinder its buoyancy.

And what was rocketing to the surface was my newfound fear of "us".  

Why am I so scared of "us"?

What will happen if I acknowledge an "us"?

If I admit to it, if I admit to needing, wanting, being vulnerable; ultimately, of being human and a fragile one at that?  

It's been a long time since I've allowed myself to be that fragile—that open.  With Harm, I've been Imore/I open, but I can't recall when I allowed myself to feel as deeply as I do about Harm freely.  That weekend in Nantucket was probably the closest, and it was as exhilarating as it was terrifying.  

Perhaps, a long, long time ago, when I was a little girl, I was a little more carefree, and naïve, but then I grew up.  When you love someone, you're really putting yourself on the line.  I know it shouldn't be thought of that way, but it's the description that comes closest to how I feel.

I feel like if I admit to Harm that I love him—or accept an admission—that we have reached a point of no return.  You can't undo what's been said.  You can't sweep it under the rug or let it fall, or pretend something was vague and misconstrued.  It's there, bald face and defiant, daring you to deny it.

This is something I'm not going to be able to sweep under or tell myself to forget; it's something that's out there that can never be taken away.

Likewise, if we go public with a relationship, then you can't pretend nothing ever happened; save face if it all goes bad. 

I can't decide if I feel this way because of Harm's history of failed relationships, or mine. 

I'm scared things won't work out, because of all my worry, they might not, because I keep fixating on our relationship falling apart and me being left once again with nothing.  I don't think if this doesn't work out that I can pull myself together like I have in the past.  There's way too much of my heart invested in it.  

I have to admit that I need Harm.  I Iknow/I I need Harm.  I Iknow/I I love him.  But what is doesn't need me as much as I need him?  What if one day he changes his mind?

Hell, my mother broke what should be an unbreakable bond with a child and deserted me, never to look back until years later.  And where is she now?

IWho's to say Harm won't do the same? /I A little voice inside my head rasps out quickly, before I can clamp down on the thought.  I Ihate/I that little voice.  It's an ugly one that has haunted me for years, since I was a young girl.

It's the same voice that never lets me believe in myself.  Never lets me believe I deserve the success and happiness that I have damn well earned.  

So I'm scared.  Chances are Harm's a little scared, too.  That doesn't mean he's going to catch the first jet to Keflavik.  Though maybe under usual circumstances he would.

Don't think that, MacKenzie.  He's not going anywhere.  If he does, you're going to find him and kill him.

Being in love with someone means taking a chance.  Taking a chance that yes, maybe, despite what you might be lead to think, they don't feel the same way.  That things won't work out.  But there's also the chance that they do and they will.

I can't let that little voice win.


	29. Chapter Twentynine

Dammit.

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

I take a deep breath, square my shoulders and rap on room 317, knowing this is a bad idea from its inception.  I ignore the "Do Not Disturb" sign hanging on the doorknob and rap again.

I lean forward just a bit and catch the sound of a door closing and a lot of rustling before a pause in activity—most likely Harm looking through the peephole—and the sharp clacks of locks unlocking.

"Hi," I say brightly, confirming this is a mistake the moment I lay eyes on him.  He's half-dressed and partly mussed from what appears to be a freshly taken shower.

I take one long look at him and have to fight the urge to jump him immediately.

He just stares at me, hand still on the edge of the door, as though he might close it at any second.

"Hi," he replies after a moment.

"I was in the neighborhood…" I begin jokingly, but it falls flat between us.  

He continues to stare at me.

Ohhh-kay.  Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

"I thought you might like some help on the Addison case."

"You drove all this way to help?" he asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Well, the admiral thought maybe you could use a second investigator."

"The admiral did, did he?" He says with a note of skepticism.

"Yes."  We continue to stand in the doorway and I'm starting to get more than a little annoyed, which is undoubtedly a good thing, since nothing is a bigger turn off than when I'm annoyed with Harm.

I glance up at him, ready to tell him what I really think, when I catch his eyes doing a languorous travel down my body.

So much for being turned off.

"Are you going to ask me in?" I ask impatiently.  His eyes meet mine, dark and hungry, but he raises an impassive eyebrow and says, "I think us working together is a potentially bad idea."

**********

"God, have I missed you," he murmurs against my mouth, his hands already finishing up the last button on my blouse before discarding the article on the floor.

"You knew this would happen," I accuse, running my fingers through his damp silky hair.

"Me?" he murmurs, fixing that wonderful mouth on the swell of my breast. "You instigated it."

"Instigated it?  How?"

He pulls away to look at me.  "Mac, you can't tell me that you had no idea this would happen."

"None whatsoever," I reply innocently, taking the moment in which he flashes me a disbelieving look to catch my breath.

"Right.  You've got to be kidding me.  That look you were giving me was a "Take me now" look if ever I saw one."

"What!"

He divests me of my pants and resumes his lip work.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Flyboy.  Just a minute here."  I squirm away and attempt to look as dignified and properly offended as one can clad only in skivvies.  "Are you saying I came here with the sole intention of getting you to fall into bed with me?"

"Well, no, maybe not the _sole_ intention, but let's face it: I'm just too hard to resist."

Well, resist this, commander.  I give him a searing kiss, and just as he is about to renew his assault on my senses, I roll out from under him and take a seat on a nearby chair and flip through a few pages of depositions and notes—which, not incidentally is the case we're supposed to be working on.

"So, how are we coming along here with the case?"

I grab a nearby legal pad and attempt to decipher Harm's messy handwriting.  Most of it is a mixed up huddle of information quickly jotted down as they undoubtedly came to Harm's mind, but in the middle of the page, separated by both a blank line above and below it, is a question underlined twice:  _What's going on with Mac and us?_

Good question.  But I remind myself of the resolution I came to on the way here.  I'm not going to let the voice win.  I don't want Harm to get any more confused or discouraged.  

Still, it doesn't mean I can't tease Harm a little.  Superego over there could stand a bit of a challenge.

He stands and re-buckles his pants with a controlled sigh and smoothes the back of his hair where my fingers wreaked havoc on it.

"The case is fine," he replies a bit breathily.  "Things are a little tense with my client, but nothing I can't handle.  I don't know why the admiral sent you down here."

"Obviously, he doesn't agree with your assessment.  What do you mean by tense?"

He takes a seat across from me and pulls a file out of my hands.  "Lieutenant Michael Addison is, well, let's just say he's a bit willful and difficult, and not at all inclined to listen to reason."

"Hmm, sounds like someone I know."

He gives me a dirty look.  I return it with a wide smile.   "I tried convincing him to accept Commander Rimes' offer, but he's not about to spend two years at Leavenworth, when he can go to trial and spend ten."  He sighs tiredly, giving me an indication just how fed up he is with the whole situation and now I can see why the admiral saw it best to have me assist.

I am, after all, a frighteningly adept mediator.

"Hmm, well, perhaps I can reason with him."

Harm snorts.  This time I'm the one giving out dirty looks.  "What?"

"No offense, Mac, but unless you're planning to 'help' lieutenant Addison the way you planned to 'help' me, I don't think you'll have much success."

"Excuse me?"

He gestures to my attire.  "Don't get me wrong.  You're an excellent attorney, and I'm sure you'll put up a very convincing argument, but trust me, you'd have a better chance of getting through to him showing up in that."  Again he gestures to my lingerie, this time almost reverently.  "And even then, I wouldn't hold my breath."  He pauses.  "Victoria's Secrets?" 

"Yes.  And I'll have you know I did _not_ come here just to have a few jollies with you in bed."

"That's a shame, marine, because it's a big bed and I'm more than willing to share a few jollies with you in it."  He gives me a lopsided grin.  I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling.

"That would be unprofessional, Commander Rabb."

"Yes, it would, but it would also be infinitely satisfying don't you think?"

Undoubtedly.

"I am merely here to assist you with the case, as per the admiral's orders."

"Well, you know, we always perform well as a team," he says, just the slightest emphasis on 'perform'.

I raise my eyes from the brief I've been staring at off and on for the past ten minutes and stare into the glittering seductive gaze of a man on a mission.  Which only reminds me that I've got a goal here, too, and spending the night with Harm isn't it.  

Although, it would be a nice way to spend an evening.  

"And we both work better when we get our minds off a difficult case for awhile," continues, slipping a hand underneath the table to caress my knee and thigh.

"_You_ might, commander, but I'm new to this case and I need to bone up on it."  

"I'd be happy to debrief you, Mac," he replies easily, looking at my lacy underwear.

I don't doubt it.  I shift in my seat and try to slow the pulse racing through my body.

"Tell you what, colonel, we'll compromise—you can bone up on the case while I debrief you."  He says, emphasis on a few well-chosen words as he leers at me.   Then he leans across the table to capture my mouth.  His finger slides higher along my leg, until it's tracing the lacy edge of my underwear.

I will my eyes not to close as I think of all the pleasures one can derive from his fingers, but it's no use, and I find my eyelids slipping shut and my body responding to his soft touch. 

I _knew_ this was a mistake.  I _knew_ coming here would mean that we probably wouldn't act in accordance with some important military rules and regulations.  But hell, when have we ever since we started this relationship?

Yes.  Big mistake, MacKenzie.

His mouth keeps doing what its doing and this will be the best damned mistake I've ever made.

"Harm…"

"Hmm…?"

He pushes out of his chair and pulls me out of mine and brings me flush with his body.

"We really should work."

"We are.  I'm helping you bone up, remember?"

No, I think it's the other way around, commander, I think as he pulls me even tighter to him.

Oh, hell with it.  I'm here, he's here.  A bed's here.  What more do we really need?

**********

I roll over onto my side and wince as something sharp jabs into it.  I sleepily reach around for the offending object and pull what feels to be a file folder out from under me.  I squint at it for a moment in the early morning darkness before sighing tiredly.  I toss it in the direction of the table and hear it miss entirely, splashing papers all across the floor.  I heave another sigh.

It's too damn early to even think about anything now.  I close my eyes and bury my head in my flat pillow, attempting to find the comfort I'm seeking.  I sigh again and almost fall out of bed when it echoes from behind me.  A moment later a slender arm reaches around and wraps around my middle.  A second after that I feel the weight of something bulky and heavy press against my shoulder blades.  

My eyes are wider and brighter than I ever known them to be at 3:49 in the morning.  As carefully—and as quickly—as possible I turn around and feel something silky and, well, hairy come into contact with my mouth.  

Oh, it's just Mac.  Thank God.  

I close my eyes and smile.  Well, this morning is shaping up nicely.  Get Lieutenant Addison to see the light of day and my day will be complete.

Oh, Christ.

My eyes pop open again as I realize the implications of Mac sleeping here beside me.  In my bed.  In my hotel room.  That JAG is paying for.  Because I'm on an investigation.  _She's_ assisting me on the investigation.

We're supposed to be working together not sleeping together.  Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.  How are we going to explain only one hotel room on our expense reports?   _Well, admiral, we know how hard up the military is for funding and we thought we'd economize by sharing a bed and a shower, and some other things that are probably better left unsaid. _

The hits just keep on coming as I recall not too long ago Mac said she wanted to take things slow, and here we are in bed together on JAG's dime.  This time I sigh disgustedly, ashamed to know I let my hormones once again cast the deciding vote in my relationship with Mac.  

But does taking it slow mean not having sex at all or just not as much or what?  Seems to me that it's pretty vague, but I can't help but feel I might be trying to rationalize it to my favor.  

"Mac?" I whisper, not wanting to alarm her to the mess we've potentially gotten ourselves into, but it can't hurt to start brainstorming a way out of it.

"Mac?"  This time I nudge her with my elbow.

She murmurs something sleepily in my ear and slides her leg across my thigh and I consider putting off the unpleasant duty of informing my partner that we may be court-martialed in favor of a far more enjoyable morning task.

No, no, no, Rabb.  That kind of thinking is what got you into this mess.

"Mac."

"Hmm?"

"Mac?"

"Hmm."

"Mac, wake up."

"Unh-uh," is what I think she says.

"Uh, Mac, we've got a problem."

"Hmm?"  This time there's a note of confusion, and I know I've got at least part of her intention now.

"You're in my bed."

"Is that a problem?" she drawls, sliding her arm across my chest and down my abdomen.

"Uh, no, not generally, but the admiral might not see it that way."

I wait for the inevitable explosion.

"Agghh!" She shrieks, sitting bolt upright in bed, covers slipping off her _and_ me.  

"Shhh!" I hiss, trying to reclaim some of the blankets and warmth.

"Harm!"  She whirls around to stare at me in disbelief.  "What are we going to do?"

"Tell me you checked in, that you have your own room."

The worried look smoothes away and she breathes a hefty sigh of relief.

"I did check in, I do have my own room.  Whew, thank goodness.  You had me worried, Harm."  She flops back down on her side and pulls the blankets over her shoulder.

"That's it?"

I can see the white of her eyes gleaming in the darkness of the room when she opens them.  She looks at me questioningly.

"You're just going to waltz out of here this morning in the now wrinkled uniform you wore last night?"

"Of course not.  Well, I suppose so, temporarily at least, until I reach my room where I will pull out a freshly pressed uniform from my bag and get dressed and go about my work as usual.  And I'll also make sure to make the bed look properly slept in and the room properly used."  She gives me a kiss on the cheek.  "Go back to sleep."

"And you think that will work?" I ask skeptically, wondering how someone, who not two weeks before was freaking out about us, is now suddenly okay with something this big looming before us.

"Mm-hmm."

"What are you going to say if somebody asks where you were?"

There's a pause, and then the soft touch of her lips at the juncture of my jaw and throat, and when she speaks I can hear the smile in her voice.

"I'll say you were up all night debriefing me."


	30. Chapter Thirty

(3 WEEKS LATER)

1422 ZULU

Harm's Apartment

North of Union Station

Harm's feet are propped out before him on the coffee table, sipping a cup of coffee with one hand and reading the newspaper with the other.  I've got the section with the crossword, my own feet also propped out on the coffee table, seated in the chair opposite the couch.  Jingo snoozes on the carpet between us.  This is the fourth or fifth time I've spent the night here since Sergei moved out a couple of weeks ago, and both Jingo and I are starting to feel at home.  Harm even fixes Jingo and I breakfast each morning.  

There is quite a domestic atmosphere and I like it.  His hair is still damp from his shower, or perhaps it's glistening from the gel he uses, I can't tell, but I think it's more the former.  He's wearing a red button-down shirt, well-worn jeans, and sneakers.  I could get used to this with Harm.  This could be our Sundays every Sunday together.  

"What's on your mind, Mac?  You're awfully quiet over there," he remarks taking a sip of his coffee.

"Just thinking," I reply restlessly.  

"About?"

I bite my lip.  "Us."

He glances up warily.  I feel a hint of annoyance surface.  Just because I say "us" doesn't mean we have to pull out the heavy armor and ready the cryptographs.  

"It's just nice relaxing together like this."  I can see the tension drain from here.

"I could get used to it," he says nonchalantly, taking another sip of his coffee.  He glances at me over the cup.  I'm not sure what exactly he's said (or what exactly he means, anyway), but I feel my anticipation grow from his expression.

"Me too."  Brilliant MacKenzie.  I smile while I frantically try to think of something to say that conveys everything I'm feeling right now.  

"We could get married."  That remarkable statement (and said remarkably offhandedly) comes from Harm.  He looks up from his paper to take another sip of his coffee and watch my reaction.

I can't string two sentences together, much less summon a response to his suggestion—proposal.  That just came out of left field.  Not that it's an unreasonable proposal.  I realize my mouth is bobbing like a fish, and I manage to grasp onto one of many responses floating through my mind now.

"What?"

"Get married.  Us.  Live together."

We could technically do that without the marriage certificate, but I'm not about to point this out.  Surely he's aware of that, too.

"Work on that baby deal we made."  

I'm still gaping at him like a fish, I can tell.

"You're serious?"

Harm nods.  "Do you want me to get down on one knee?  Maybe suit up in my dress whites?"  There's a hint of a nervous smile.

"No!"  Whoops, that didn't come out right.  Now he looks really nervous.

"Well, maybe get down on one knee…you know for tradition's sake," I say, wondering if he'll do it, if he's really serious about us getting married.  The butterflies in my stomach come to life as he leans forward and sets his paper and mug on the coffee table.  He stands and walks determinedly around Jingo, who looks accusingly at Harm for disturbing his rest, to where I sit, and kneels on his right knee.  He takes my coffee mug out of my hand and sets it down on the table.  I pull my legs off the table and sit up straight as he takes my left hand in his and gazes directly into my eyes.

"Sarah, will you marry me?"

Mesmerized by those sharp, intense, green eyes I can't say no—not that I want to say no.

"Yes!" I shout.  I continue with a more consciously subdued, "Yes, I'll marry you."

He grins disarmingly and leans forward to kiss me.  Just before he does, he jerks away.  "Wait a sec."  He dashes off to his bedroom.  By now Jingo's on his feet as well, looking between the two of us as if to say, "What's going on?"  I shrug.  Harm's back a moment later.  He kneels again and takes my left hand, and produces a beautiful solitaire diamond ring, simple but elegant, and slides it onto my finger.  It fits perfectly.

"There," he says with satisfaction.  I pull my hand away and look at my ring.  Upon closer inspection, it appears to be very old; the edges are smooth as though from years of use, and I can make out one very faint scratch in the band.  I look at Harm questioningly.

"It was my mother's, given to her by my father," he explains, trying to keep the emotion out of his voice.

"It's beautiful," I whisper, tearing up.  I lean forward and claim the kiss that was interrupted earlier.  "Thank you, Harm."

He grins lopsidedly, plants another kiss on my lips and stands up.  "So, how about this Saturday?"

"Saturday?"  Hoping he doesn't mean what I think he does.

"Yeah, for our wedding date."

"Harm!  Saturday?!"  I exclaim.  "There's no way—we have to apply for a license and there's the blood tests," I begin, thinking of all the little details that have to be worked out before one can marry.  Unless, of course, you just—

"We could just take this weekend and fly to Vegas," Harm unknowingly finishes my thought.

"A Vegas wedding?" I wrinkle my nose in distaste.  "What, is Elvis going to give me away?"

"He could," Harm grins mischievously.

"Harm."  A wedding in Vegas just seems to cheapen all the things Harm and I stand for, what we mean together.  And I am not telling our kids that their father just upped and proposed out of the blue and the next weekend we celebrated our marriage by having an Elvis impersonator croon "Love me Tender" while the sounds of slots and betting went on behind us.  But that's not to say I want a cathedral wedding, with two-hundred guests and a seven-tier wedding cake.  I didn't want that with Mic.  I don't want it with Harm either. 

"If you don't like Elvis, I think there's a chapel where one of the Monkees got married."

"Harm…Vegas?!"

"I'm just kidding, Mac.  I was actually thinking you and I could take a weekend down in the Bahamas.  Frank has a condo there.  You and I could get married, maybe on the beach, and have a little honeymoon before we leave."

Hmm…now **that** actually sounds appealing.

"And you think we can get all our paperwork and bloodwork done by this weekend?"

"Sure.  All we need is the marriage license.  We put in for it Monday, we can be married by Friday at sunset."

Married by Friday at sunset.  Ohh, that sounds nice.  This also sounds suspiciously knowledgeable and well-thought out.

"How long have you been planning this?"

Harm ducks his head.  "I've been thinking about it for a while."  We've only been seriously dating (or dating period, depending how one looked at it) for a few months.  I point this out to Harm.

"You think it's too fast?"

No, that wasn't my point at all.  I don't want to slow "us" down anymore.  I'm ready to move forward and embrace our relationship, as scary as it seems sometimes—both because "us" might fail, and the fact "us" might work.  Things have been so good between us now that I've stopped listening to that Voice.  Amazingly, Harm has probably adjusted the best out of the two of us to the change in our dynamic.  It feels nice to be the object of pursuit in one of Harm's single-minded drives.  

And as far as I'm concerned, we've courted for the last six years we've known each other.  It's about time we got engaged and got married.  I tell him so.  My point is that…hell, to my recollection the only person who knows I'm in love with Harm is Sturgis, and Harm has never told me, in actual words, he's in love with me, and he's been thinking about proposing for three weeks.  

I suppose verbal declarations of love are overrated anyway.  Harm has demonstrated in his behavior that he loves me, and I suppose that's true of me, too.  And I suppose, deep, deep, down we know that we love each other.  Still.

"Well, it's not…I mean, I want to marry you…I'll marry you tomorrow, if it were possible…it's just…"

He looks worried again.

"What?"

"We've never even…" 

"What?"

"…never even told each other 'I love you.'" I finish.

He's silent for a moment.  "I asked you to marry me," Harm points out, as though it should be obvious his intentions and feelings towards me.  I suppose he's right there.  I know Harm takes marriage seriously.  And I certainly don't consider it with the same whimsy I did in my youth when I married Chris, and I especially don't intend to enter into a union lightly after the whole thing with Mic.  But I still want to hit him with something.  What are we going to do, go through our marriage without ever confessing our love for one another?  What are we going to do when it becomes time to exchange vows?  I suppose Harm thinks the vows will just cover it there, too.  Fine.  One of us has to be the adult here and start.  It's obvious that it's me.

"Harm," I begin, "I love you."

"I know."

He 'knows'?!  Who is he, Han Solo?  I sigh in frustration.

"What?" He looks honestly perplexed.  "If you didn't love me, you wouldn't have said yes to my proposal.  And if I didn't love you, I wouldn't have asked you to marry me."

I suppose this is as close to a declaration of love as I'm going to get with him.  Perhaps I can cajole the words out of him by our golden wedding anniversary.

"I do love you, Sarah MacKenzie," he continues softly.  "I've been in love with you for a while."  

I beam at him.  "Longer than three weeks?" I ask, thinking of Harm's rather unorthodox order of relationship progression.  He had the wedding and proposal all figured out before he even started dating me.

"Yeah, definitely longer than three weeks."

I could tap dance across Harm's apartment right now, but I think I'll wait until he's at least out of sight.

"So," I say, clapping my hands together, "we've got a wedding to plan and not a lot of time to do it."

He grins that sexy flyboy grin.  "What's to plan?  We apply for the license.  Purchase a couple of plane tickets.  Pack light." He wiggles his brows suggestively.  I laugh.

"What about the wedding rings?  And witnesses?  And a dress, Harm.  I don't have anything to wear." I stand up and start pacing, needing to burn off some energy.  "At least not for a wedding.  Not for my _own_ wedding.  And what about your parents?  And Harriet and Bud, and the Admiral and Sturgis, and Clay, and JAG?  And what about living arrangements, Harm?"

Clearly, judging by Harm's expression, he hasn't really given much thought to any of those things.  That doesn't stop Harm, though.

"We'll get the rings this week.  I'm sure we can find somebody local to witness our wedding.  You'll find something to wear.  I'd marry you in your fatigues, Mac, or a grass skirt, if you're hard-pressed.  Mom and Frank are on a cruise somewhere in the North Pacific, and as for Harriet and Bud and everybody else at JAG…let's not worry about that right now.  As for living arrangements…I thought maybe you might like to move in with me.  We can look for a house after we get settled.  Into the marriage, I mean, or if we need the space…soon.  I mean, it's only temporary—there's not enough room to raise a family, anyway."

I smile.  I do want to live with Harm here.  He owns his apartment, whereas I rent—including the furniture--and Harm's spent a lot of time and money fixing this place up.  Jingo and I like it here.  "Jingo and I would be happy to move in with you."  He grins.

"Bud and Harriet could stand up for us," I say.

"'Hey Bud'," he ventures in hypothetical conversation, "'You mind being best man at my wedding.  The colonel and I are getting hitched this weekend, and we'd really appreciate it if you and Harriet stand up for us.  Bud?  Bud?!  Are you all right, Lieutenant?'"  He looks at me with a pointed expression.

Fine.  So we'd have some explaining to do.  He gives me another look when I concede this.  "To everyone.  It's going to be hard enough to get away this weekend without some damn assignment coming up, or one of Webb's schemes getting in the way.  Not to mention the likelihood of Bud being able to get away, even for a weekend, is pretty much zilch now that he's stationed aboard the _Seahawk_."

True.

"I'd just like to point out that if we had listened to _my_ suggestion earlier in our relationship and told everyone that we were seeing each other than we wouldn't be dealing with this conundrum."

"I'd like to point out that when I did concede to your 'suggestion' you freaked out and decided it would be best not to say anything 'just yet.'"  

I flash a dirty look. 

"Let's just get married and worry about all the rest later," he suggests.

Typical guy.

"What about our careers?" I ask.  This is something we need to discuss so we can be prepared for the consequences.  I concede that yes, technically, everything else can pretty much be handled at some later date, but the Admiral's wrath and a transfer are two very real possibilities.

Harm sighs, and I know he realizes that it's one topic we can't ignore until after the wedding.  We've been ignoring it for weeks now.  It's time to be dealt with.


	31. Chapter Thirtyone

1352 ZULU

JAG HEADQUARTERS

FALLS CHURCH, VA

It's with a decided spring in my step that I enter the office Wednesday, unable to keep any telltale signs of happiness and utter contentment out of my expression even if I wanted to.

Two days from today I'll be standing on a sandy beach, the waves lapping at our feet, the sun setting beautifully behind us as Mac and I recite our vows of love and commitment to one another.  Hard to believe that after nearly forty years of single living in only two days I'll be a very happily wedded man.  

Wow.  

Married.  

Husband.

And one day, hopefully, Father.

Married to Mac.

Mr. And Mrs. Harmon Rabb, Jr.

Sarah Rabb.

Yup, definitely has a nice ring to it.  I hope Mac thinks so, too.  

"Morning, sir!" Harriet chirps cheerfully, jostling me out of my thoughts.  She flashes me a big smile, as though she knows what has me so up in spirits today.  Well, maybe she does have an idea.  Sturgis, damn him, asked a few nosy, pointed questions, after he walked in on some important phone calls regarding my plans for the weekend, and I don't think I dropped chaff fast enough to escape damage.  As a result, a good portion of the staff may or may not think I'm planning to surprise Mac with a romantic dinner.

I must say the change the news brought about in the lonely Lieutenant Sims is almost comical.   She's been quite obvious about dropping hints in anything she thinks might make my date easier, more enjoyable, or more romantic.  Actually, some of her suggestions have been quite good, not that I'll tell her.  I'd hate to confirm any rumors, no matter how entirely—or not entirely—accurate they are.  

Although, after this weekend the smoke and mirrors will be wasted effort, anyway.

Until then…

"Good morning, Lieutenant," I reply easily, flashing her a conspiratorial wink which only brightens her smile.  "How's Bud?"

"Fine, sir.  He's settling back into sea duty easily, sir."

"That's good to hear," I say, taking note of Mac's darkened office.

"The colonel's not in, yet," Harriet supplies helpfully.

"I can see that, lieutenant."

"Yes, sir."  She grins impishly and I decide I'd better take my self—and my interest in the colonel—into the relative safety of my office.  I flash a brief smile and make my escape, but not before I see Lieutenant Sims flash another knowing look before taking a seat at her desk.

*********

Let's see what's on the agenda for today.  I set my briefcase down on my desk and toss my cover onto the bookshelf behind it.

Staff call at 9:00

Court at 10:00

Lunch with my fiancé 12:00 (I know I'm smiling that stupid grin that often accompanies me when I think of Mac).

Court at 1:00

Skip out of work if at all possible by 3:00, so that I can take care of wedding matters, such as plane tickets, wedding bands, and pick up marriage license.

Dinner at 7:00 with said fiancé, and going over the Rothschild case and wedding details.

A busy day, in other words.

My blushing bride-to-be stomps into the bullpen and into her office, sloshing snow off her overcoat and hair, looking rather upset.  This notion is reinforced when she swings her door shut with vehemence.  The resounding slam scatters people from her office, most sidling away quickly for the safety of the break room or copier, which is a safer distance away from the free fire zone than, say, the duty roster board, or Harriet's desk.  Well, I suppose I should go over there and find out what she's so upset about.

I'm rather comfortable in my office though.  Safe.  

Suck it up, Harm.  

Ah, Sturgis.

"Looks like the colonel's in a mood," he comments.

"Yeah," I agree.

"What did you do?"

"Me?  Nothing."  He raises a disbelieving eyebrow.  

"If you're so sure I did something wrong, why don't you ask her."  And thus save me from her ire if I _did_ do something wrong.  But I don't think I did.  We seemed okay last night.

"You do your own dirty work, buddy.  I'm staying out of it."

"Right."  I don't know why Sturgis even bothers saying that.  He's been in the middle of everything here at JAG since he arrived.  It's like me insisting Mac and I are just friends.  No truth to it whatsoever.

"Besides," he continues, leveling his piercing gaze at me, "you two seem to be on _very_ good terms lately."  A-ha.  Case in point.

I look away as I answer, "Mac and I swing like a pendulum.  One moment things are good, the next…"  

"Hmm…and you're sure she's not upset with you?"

Well, not really.  I mean, anything's possible.  I just don't recall doing anything that would even remotely piss her off from the time I asked her to marry me from the time she left this morning to get ready for work.  She seemed to be in excellent spirits when we kissed goodbye.

"It wasn't anything I did.  How are things with you and Bobbi?"

"Better.  I think we could have the start of something there.  We'll just have to wait and see how things go."

I nod in agreement, and both Sturgis and I turn to look at the source of what sounds like, through several layers of plaster and glass, muffled yelling.  Mac slaps her hand against the top of her computer monitor and mouths something, by the looks of it here, obscene.  Then she plops harshly down into her chair and I see her shoulders rise and fall in what I can guess is a very disgusted sigh.  

"Well, I'll leave you to it," Sturgis announces, pausing only to give me a sympathetic look before high tailing out of my office and out of sight.  

So much for your fellow brother in arms.

*********

"Hey, Mac," I begin cautiously, gently pressing the door forward as I step in, keeping it just close enough in contact with my hand so that, if need be, I can quickly pull it shut again in a mad dash to get out.  Or use it as a shield.

She looks disappointed about something, and yet glad to see me.  I breathe a sigh of relief as I surmise I'm not the one she's disappointed and/or angry with.  She motions for me to close the door.  Latch firmly in place, I take a seat in one of the chairs before her desk and give her an encouraging smile.

"Why the long face, marine?"

She laughs hoarsely, and I hear what suspiciously sounds like a sob trying to be smothered.  

"Sarah?"

There it is.  A sniffle.

"Have you looked at the weather?"

"No, not recently."  The last I recall hearing was that we were expecting snow today and tomorrow and judging by the flakes floating lazily down the sky it appears for once the forecaster was accurate.  That was Monday night, and with work and wedding plans, I haven't paid attention since.

"We're supposed to get six more inches of snow tonight."

"Yeah…"  I do recall hearing something about that as well.

"All thanks to Ana."

"Ana?"

"Yeah, Tropical Cyclone Ana."  She looks pointedly at me.  When I return her look with what I'm sure is a blank one, she sighs and adds, "The same tropical storm dropping snow all over us, the same tropical storm that will be hitting the Bahamas, and more specifically…Paradise Island in two days!"  
  


"Oh," is all I can say once I see what she's getting at.  "So much for a beach front wedding."  Damn.

She makes a weird noise and rocks back into her chair.  "Harm!  The city's already received four inches with another six expected to all by next morning.  Do you know what _that_ means?"  I shake my head no.  "Our flight could be delayed, Harm.  Our _wedding_ could be delayed!  Worse, Tropical Cyclone Ana could hit as predicted and we won't even _have_ a _beach_ to have a wedding!"

"Mac, calm down."

She takes a deep breath and loosens her grip on her armrest.  I see the color return to her knuckles as it drains out of her cheeks.

"Look, we'll think of something.  We don't know for sure if we'll get ten inches of snow, if our flights will be delayed, or if our wedding will be cancelled.  There's a lot of ifs, Mac."

"But if it is?"

"What?  We get ten inches of snow?  A great excuse for you and I to stay in tonight and keep warm.  If the flight is delayed?  We take a later one.  If Ana does hit?  Well, it's a big disappointment, but we can always reschedule.  That ring," I indicate the diamond ring resting hidden with her dogtags beneath her blouse, "doesn't come with an expiration date, Mac.  I gave it to you with the full intention of someday making you my wife.  Now I admit I wish "someday" comes sooner, say Friday at 1930, than later, but so long as it comes."

She sniffles and gives me a watery smile.  

"Is that okay with you?" I ask, not sure if the tears bode well, as I think they do, or ill.

She gives a small laugh.  "It's more than okay."

**********

"No way, Tiner, he's taking her someplace romantic."

"With all do respect, ma'am, I think the commander—"

"The commander what?" Four bodies stiffen and snap to attention, the surreptitious hiding of a notepad and manila envelope not going unnoticed.

"Sir!" Tiner acknowledges, looking for all the world like the admiral just caught him with his feet kicked up in his chair.

"Tiner.  Harriet.  Sturgis, and you are…?"  I look at a young woman with lieutenant bars and a line officer's insignia.

"This is Lieutenant Zucker, sir," Harriet supplies, "She's an old friend of mine."

"Nice to meet you, lieutenant."  We shake hands and smile.  "So, what about the commander?" 

"Uh, the lieutenant—"

"Tiner was just saying that—"

"Commander Turner has—"

Lieutenant Zucker displays keen intelligence and wisely stays silent.

"Yes?"  I cross my arms over my chest and hope my amusement doesn't show.

"Uh--"

"Well," Sturgis begins as two sets of eyes flash gratefully, "we were just trying to figure out, uh, what I mean is the lieutenant and the petty officer and I were…we were, well, we were wondering where the admiral's going to take Miss Cavanaugh on their first date."

I smirk inwardly.  Right.  "Ah.  Better keep your nose clean, Sturgis.  The admiral finds out you're speculating on his personal affairs he's liable to make good on the promise of shore duty in Keflavik.  He's still mad at you for trying to set him up."

"As I recall, I wouldn't be alone in my duties.  In fact, I wouldn't even be threatened with it if it wasn't for _your_ botched attempt at matchmaking."

I grin.  "Still, I amazed at you Sturgis.  Partaking in speculation of a superior officer's affairs with junior personnel?  Tsk, tsk."  I give each party a sharp look.  "With the admiral, hmm, it probably _is_ someplace romantic," I suggest gamely. 

I turn as if to make for my office, before halting suddenly.  "Oh, wait, didn't you say the _commander_?"  I get the satisfaction of watching the relief that had settled on their faces when I turned away wash away as guilt and fear takes it place.

Four heads simultaneously shake their heads.

"No, sir."

"Uh-uh."

"I don't think so, Harm."

"You must have misheard, commander."

"Oh, well, my mistake."  I grin apologetically and disappear into my office, whistling all the way, despite the risk of a certain marine and navy SEAL hearing it.


	32. Chapter Thirtytwo

AN: Wow. Does anybody remember the last time I updated this story. Okay, okay, I know it's listed right there in the story header, but really, does anyone even remember this _story_? I know it's been a loooooooooooong time, but I'm going to take the monumental step of posting the next chapter in hopes it will give me the monumental will to finish this story. I hate leaving things unfinished and believe it or not, I've been thinking on and off about this story for quite a few months. I sorry to say I got a little peeved at JAG and Donald Bellasario & Co. with the direction they took Harm and Mac's characters, so I (gasp!) quit watching it. For about two years. Well, maybe not that long, but I don't think I caught even one episode from last season, and I suspect that's pretty close to the truth because I can't recall any important details from it. Hmmm…What season did Mattie appear? Anyway, I happened to catch the Christmas episode from this season and so I kind of felt the rekindling of hope. Kind of. Anyway, to anyone who does remember, I appreciate your long memory and your patience. I suspect you'll need a lot of it if you're anxiously awaiting the conclusion. It will be slow in coming. But it is coming.

All right, I admit, the weather has me a little concerned. Not as concerned as Mac, perhaps, but one of us has to remain calm, at least on the outside.

But the fact is that it's Thursday and, having made the point of checking the weather from three different sources, it doesn't appear that Tropical Cyclone Ana is going to let up any time soon. In fact, she's poised to dump another three inches on D.C. and to storm the beach, literally, for the next three days on Paradise Island. Needless to say, paradise it won't be.

So now I've got to figure something out. Fast. An idea struck me about four in the morning. I don't know how feasible it is—but then, how feasible was planning a Bahaman wedding in under a week?

I just don't know how the logistics will work out with this new plan, with less than 24 hours to execute it.

Oh, well, great battles have been won with a split second decision. (Of course, a great many have been lost, too. Oh, hell, I can see that kind of thinking isn't going to be productive.)

Before I throw in the monogrammed towel, I need to explore all my options.

"Yeah. Yeah. Thank you. You have my cell number, right? Yes. Yes—" I pause mid-scribble as I catch sight of Sturgis heading my way, a stack of files in hand. "Uh, I'll have to get back to you on the rest. Thanks again." I hang up just as Sturgis raps on the door.

I carefully pull my papers together and rap the edges on the desk.

"Sturgis," I smile.

He gives me an amused grin.

"I haven't seen you this shifty and secretive since, oh, right before you and Mac both took off early and nobody heard from either of you until Monday."

My stomach tightens but I only answer, "That? Oh, I took her to pick up her car and then I went flying."

"So you said."

"You think I'm lying?"

"I think there's something more going on than meets the eye."

Sturgis, if you only knew.

"What do you mean?"

"You don't think I, or half the office, doesn't know you're planning on asking Mac out on a date?"

I make a very convincing Pfffah! sound. And mom said that drama class was wasted on someone who wanted to fly fighter jets in the Navy.

"You're going to try telling me you're not?"

Well, technically, no I am _not_ planning on asking Mac out on a date. Sturgis must like the answer my expression tells him because he continues, lowering his voice, "How long have we known each other, Harm? How long have we been friends? You wouldn't b.s. your friends would you?" Oh, sure, lay that guilt trip on me.

"What about you and Bobbi?"

"Oh, I don't think so buddy. This conversation is strictly about you."

"Yeah, me and my relationship with Mac."

"So there is a relationship?"

"Yes." I shrug noncommittally and add with perfect innocence, "We're friends."

Sturgis sighs disgustedly and shakes his head disapprovingly. He looks rather like my grandmother after I've told her what we both know is a bald-faced lie. Pretty soon he'll cluck his tongue and say, "Harmon, Harmon, Harmon."

"Well, okay," I amend, wondering why I'm even admitting this much—but it can't hurt—too badly—right? "So we may be working towards something a little more mutually fulfilling."

He turns back, all signs of disapproval gone as his face takes on an expression of keen interest.

"Really? You and Mac finally decided to go for it?"

"You could say that."

"So this Friday is your special day, huh?"

"You could also say that." If I figure out a solution to this wedding conundrum.

"Your first big date."

"Uh, well, you know, I—"

"So where are you taking her?"

I snap my jaw closed before anything top secret comes out. "What do you mean?"

"To dinner. You're taking her out to eat, right?"

Well, yes, I suppose we'll dine before the wedding. Or maybe after. Waaaaay after.

"Uh, yeah. Um, I haven't decided."

"What's the holdup, buddy? You've got to get your reservations in today if you want to be ready for the big day tomorrow."

Tell me about it.

"You're not getting cold feet, are you?"

"About mar—er, Mac?" He nods. I shake my head no. No, I'm certain that I want to marry Mac.

"Good. So why the indecision?"

I sigh. "I just want everything to be perfect. I mean we've waited so long…"

"My advice is not to over-think it, Harm."

Easy for you to say. Tomorrow represents the single most important day of my life. Tomorrow represents my future happiness with the single most important woman to me in the world. Tomorrow means everything.

"It doesn't matter to Mac if you take her to a five star restaurant or if you buy her a shake and an order of fries at Beltway. All she cares about," he continues, sounding like one of those annoying advice columnists, "is being with you. You got to make her feel special."

Scratch that, he sounds more like a pitchman for a Hallmark commercial.

"Anybody can take her out for an expensive meal, but a true gentleman knows just how to make her feel like a very special lady."

Better yet, excerpt read from _A Bubblehead's guide to Dating._

"So you see, it's not how much money you spend, it's what you say—how you make her feel. And buddy _that's_ what you should really be worried about." Gee, thanks, Sturgis.

"Given your history with Mac you have the potential of completely making an ass out of yourself and quite possibly ruining any chance of a serious relationship with a woman you have definite feelings for, whether you'll admit that or not," he adds under his breath. "But, say the right thing and nobody in this office has to worry about wearing a flak jacket and protective head gear Monday morning."

Well, I'm glad we had this little talk. Maybe it's a good thing we're not going public with our relationship and our wedding, and having a traditional ceremony and wedding party, because if you were best man, Sturgis, I think I'd fire you after that speech.

"Anyway, I gotta get back to work. Later Harm. Let me know if you need, you know, any help with the arrangements." He flashes a conspiratorial smile and leaves me to mull over his advice.

It brings an aspect I'd rather not think about. So far, everything has been going great between Mac and I. I've actually managed to chew on a few things without the taste of shoe leather tainting them. I've decided I like not having foot-in-mouth syndrome. And I definitely don't want to reacquaint myself with the sensation the day before my honeymoon begins, short though it be. Which brings me back to the _real_ issue at hand.

I push Sturgis's comments aside and log onto the weather site one last time.

We're screwed.

I push away from the desk and the computer monitor I've been staring at with feverish intensity for the last hour or so.

Any way I look at it or any way the forecasters predict it, Tropical Cyclone Ana is going to drop anchor on Paradise Island by Friday. She won't leave port, by the looks of it, until the following Monday.

In other words, all our plans for a nice romantic wedding on the beach and a steamy honeymoon have been swept away by tropical winds a-blowin'.

Dammit.

Why is it as soon as Harm and I decide to go for something together everything in the universe conspires to keep it from happening? First it was our entire relationship, then our first romantic weekend together and now our romantic wedding.

Is this some kind of cosmic sign that we're not meant to be together? Or perhaps it's another message. That if we fess up, then we wouldn't have to resort to sneaking around—we could just blatantly ask for what we wanted. Say, a weekend off together. Or a week. Or a wedding. With Sturgis and Bud. And Harriet. And the admiral and Meredith. Coates, Tiner, and Gunny. Harm's mom and stepdad. Uncle Matt. Dress whites. Formal ceremony. Flowers. Cake.

Little A.J. dressed in his best suit and tie, holding the satin pillow bearing the rings that signify our love and commitment to one another as the chaplain precedes us in the vows of marriage, while our closest friends and our families look on. Harm, resplendent in dress whites and gold wings, smiling that drop dead gorgeous pilot smile of his, his green eyes so perfectly clear and soft, staring deeply into mine as he repeats each word of promise to me. The quiet sniffle of Harriet behind me, a flicker of motion registered out of the corner of my eye, as she raises a soggy Kleenex to dab at her eyes.

I can just hear her voice, "Oh, ma'am, I am so happy for you! You and the commander will be so happy! Ma'am? Ma'am?"

"Ma'am!"

"Uh, yes, Harriet, did you need something?" I ask, as though I haven't been a million miles away dreaming about my nuptials with Harm.

"Yes, ma'am. Those depositions you wanted on the Muller case are in."

"Oh, thank you, Harriet. You can set them down on my desk." I fight the urge to role my eyes after she glances at my desk with a rather dubious look. Really, it's not that bad. I even went through some of my case files and cleared some off. Currently, my desk looks the cleanest I've seen it, and there's quite frankly plenty of room to add some new file folders without them falling victim to the masses.

She approaches slowly, as though a manila folder might reach out and attack her, and eyes the stacks—neatly piled, I might add—with trepidation. After glancing around she finally settles on one and adds the deposition to the top. We both hold our breath as the pile of files teeters dangerously before slowly, gracefully, dipping to the right and collapsing with an inelegant splat.

"Sorry, ma'am," she says, hastily reaching for the piles of folders pressed against the desk on the floor.

"That's okay," I sigh. I've long since determined the day—the week—is not going to get any better from this point forward. I scoot my chair back and join her on the floor, scooping up papers and folders.

As I go about the mindless task of organizing and sorting papers and folders, my mind, aided by Harriet's casual remarks, slowly drifts to the details of my impending nuptials.

There's still a lot to be done and, as the saying goes, not a lot of time to do it. There's the subject of what to wear, which I still haven't decided on. Should it be something semi-traditional—white, off white—or something completely different? A floral sarong and matching bikini top?

Yikes. What am I saying? Tropical wedding or not, there's no way our kids are going to look back on our wedding photos and see their mom and dad in swim trunks, a string bikini and flip-flops. Nope, there's nothing wrong with a nice dress and some strappy shoes. Of course, then you have sand between your toes, but—

Oh, face it, MacKenzie. You're not getting married to this weekend. There'll be no Mr. And Mrs. Harmon Rabb, Jr. staying at Paradise Condominiums this weekend. There'll be no reggae rendition of the wedding march as you take your place next to Harm on your sandy altar. No moonlit—

"So, do you have any plans for this weekend?" Harriet interrupts.

"Nothing definite." Seeing as I may or may not be getting married. "Why?"

"No reason," she answers quickly. "Just thought you might have something _special_ planned."

I freeze at the implication. Oh, crap, how did she find out? Was I talking out loud?

Given my current mental state, I wouldn't be surprised if that was the case, but there's no way I could casually mention my upcoming wedding and Harriet still be talking in tones found on the mid-range of the treble scale.

"Well, nothing definite's been planned."

"You mean he hasn't asked you yet?" And there her voice does jump an octave. Harriet stares at me with surprised eyes.

"Asked me what?" Is she…? No way, she can't…What is she talking about?

"Never mind," she replies quickly. "Nothing. I was just thinking… something… else."

"Harriet…"

"It's totally not important right now. Just forget it."

"Harriet, 'hasn't asked me what'?"

Her brow furrows. "What?"

"You said, he hasn't asked me yet. Who's he?" We're not going to work on the "what" just yet.

"Oh, um, Bud!"

This time it's my turn for my brow to furrow. "Bud?"

"Yeah, Bud." She looks as surprised as I am.

"What was Bud going to ask me?"

"Uh, um, I don't remember."

"Harriet?"

"Yes ma'am?" she asks innocently, twisting her ring round her finger.

I consider pursuing the issue. But I'm pretty sure it's going to lead somewhere that I don't want to have to discuss if the situation presents itself. The smart thing to do here, McKenzie, is to just let it go.

"Uh, never mind."


End file.
